


To Bare Tooth And Soul

by Long_Time_QT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Violence Will Be Tagged, Asexual Relationship, Betrayal, Case Fic, Dragon John, Dragons, Dragons Slayers, Except that he does, Friends to Lovers, John Whump, Love Conquers Hate, M/M, Magical Realism, More Characters added as story progresses, Reconciliation, Secret Identity, Sherlock Doesn't Do Feelings, Sherlock Whump, Slow Burn, Steampunk, shapeshifter john, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Long_Time_QT/pseuds/Long_Time_QT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't exactly human. Sherlock isn't exactly in the know.</p><p>A murder might just change that, but for better or worse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Totally Skippable Prologue

For as long as time can remember, humans and dragons have always existed alongside one another. Coincidentally, mind. Correlation does not equal causation after all, and much like the correlation between ice cream bought and murders committed, one did not cause the other. In simpler terms, humans and dragons have always lived alongside one another coincidentally.

Of course, two highly intelligent and fearsome creatures can’t exist long without crossing paths at one point or another. No one remembers what that first meeting might have been like.

Humans, with their endless curiosity and daring might have approached quietly. Perhaps they were crouched low to optimize their comparatively smaller frames, ready to engage or escape. Dragons, with their hyper-vigilance and natural defences might have allowed the close proximity with a watchful eye. Perhaps they had a laugh at how silly humans look when they’re crouched down like that on only two legs, with nary a wing nor claw to redeem themselves.

Regardless of how that first meeting had gone, it was the start of a complicated dance. Being nomadic, the two species would move about the lands like aristocrats in a ballroom. They would meander around territories and occasionally find themselves occupying regions near each other. As humans diversified, so did the dragons. Cultures emerged and grew to know each other in different ways, some less favourable than others, but despite conjecture a few immutable truths remained.

As humans evolved and grew into themselves, they had mastered the ways of maths and science. The advances they made hurled them ahead of the rest in their development. They taught themselves to be efficient survivors and labourers. They thrived. As for dragons, they proved themselves to be in tune with nature and sensitive to the four base elements. As dragon populations spread across the world, geographic isolation led to specialization in different magic.

It was in the region now believed to be in Bohemia that this proximity turned to animosity. A once peaceful, unspoken pact to tolerate each other was made void by The Scandal. Each side remembers it differently, if they remember it at all. Humans maintain that the dragons had attacked viciously and unmercifully in their greed for livestock, precious metals, and the hearts of virgins. Dragons tell a different tale, one of the fearful natures that belied the bravery of men and their need to dominate anything that posed a threat to the notion of their own superiority.

A Great War broke out. Each side believed that the other had wronged them and retribution must be achieved. Dragons of course, had the aerial advantage as well as the means to cause mass devastation of a village or township within minutes. Humans, however, being smaller and more efficient at breeding, had the advantage in stealth and sheer numbers. Soon they overwhelmed the dragons.

Many were killed by the men and women who would go on to form the Mighty Order of Dragon Slayers. Some had been captured for the purposes of enslavement, though this was quickly abandoned as the only way to subdue dragons were to remove them of anything that made them a threat. Their claws. Their teeth. Their wings. Anything.

But the most important and dangerous threat the dragons had was their magic. While magic was an innate quality, which allowed dragons such skills as water manipulation or fire conjuring, it was also housed in the same place humans house their knowledge of science. Several botched lobotomies and other such tinkering killed most, and what few dragons survived were in no condition to serve themselves, let alone a master.

Some dragons were luckier. They managed to seek refuge with their cousins in the east, where humanity had come to revere the creatures. By the time western influence eventually turned the rest of humanity against them, the dragons had hidden themselves away so effectively that they were all but invisible. Hunting them became all but impossible.

For the next few centuries, the world stayed in a tense equilibrium. Dragons, filled with rage at having been killed and tortured so mercilessly continued to wage war against the humans. Attacks were still few and far between for the near extinct species, but they were still devastating for the humans. Much was lost in the way of life, knowledge and ingenuity.

The Mighty Order of Dragons Slayers remained diligent in their quest to hunt down their quarry. Sometimes they’d prevail. Other times the dragons’ methods of concealment were so skilled that not even the most analytical and intelligent of Dragon Slayers could not detect them.

There was a legend that from the bonds born of the more sympathetic members of each species came a new breed. One born of the marriage between science and magic, which could change forms and slip unnoticed between each species. A being simultaneously both human and dragon, and yet neither. The ultimate concealment. A drakaine.

Of course, after five hundred years, no one believed such a creature could still exist, if it ever did. After all, it was impossible.


	2. Slice of Life Before the Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will definitely not be this frequent. I'm only posting this now because it just really feels right

John Watson still couldn’t quite believe the events that lead him to sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes. The man had blown into his life in a whirlwind of sharp remarks and murder investigations, stealing John away from his lonely bedsit and brought him full force into a world of which he never thought he would be a part. While the war served his country and he often he found himself feeling at home amidst the chaos, he never felt truly connected to it. Not like he was with the battlefield of London. Yes, he had saved countless lives in the midst of violence, but it was in London that he had his own life saved. That said, life with Sherlock was often terribly, incredibly frustrating.

This particular morning was especially trying. It was the fourth time in a fortnight that he’d gone to pour milk for his tea only to find the bottle, which had been full the night before, had been returned to the porcelain lined ice cabinet, emptied. John huffed and closed the door a little harder than necessary.

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this,” he walked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room where Sherlock laid sprawled out on the sofa, “I don’t mind the experiments, but for goodness sake get your own bloody milk for them.”

“You always mind my experiments,” Sherlock drawled and lazily lifted his head to look back at John, “For the record, I don’t see why I should go out and buy something we already have enough of in the flat. If you want more, go get more.”

“I did, and you used it,” John shot back, “What am I supposed to have with my tea now, hmm? That is if you haven’t already raided the tin for some scientific breakthrough.”

“There aren’t too many breakthroughs I could make with tea that I haven’t already made. Besides, it’s not as if milk contributes much in the way of flavour and it’s primary focus seems to be cooling. If you’re worried about getting burned just add cold water. Or let it stand.”

 _Burning is not something I really need to worry about,_ John thought but never dared to even consider saying. Instead he chose to focus on the blasphemy Sherlock seemed to think wasn’t an affront against nature.

“I’m not an animal, Sherlock. I’m not going to ‘let it stand’. As for taste, you and I clearly have a difference in opinion. I need milk in my tea.”

“People have been drinking tea without milk thousands of years before England was even founded. You’ll survive.”

John gave up the conversation. There was no use when Sherlock was so hell-bent on applying 'logical' justification for his own selfish argument. John had better things to do with his time than to keep engaging in a disagreement he couldn’t win.

“Right, well after I’m done 'surviving' my tea, I’ll go get some shopping done.”

“Good. And while you’re out, you can pick up some sugar as well.”

“Like hell, I am” John walked back into the kitchen to retrieve his tragically milkless tea. The heat of the mug, just shy of scalding, was comforting in his hands. He was almost regretful that he’d have to wait until the steam died down so that he could drink it without drawing Sherlock’s hyper observant eye.

“Don’t you think you’re being unreasonable?” Sherlock’s languid voice drifted in from the other room, “You’ll be going to the shops anyway.”

John walked back into the sitting room and made himself comfortable in his chair with his tea. As he sat he met Sherlock’s gaze with a raised brow, “But Sherlock, didn’t you know? Humans have been ingesting things without table sugar for thousands of years before England was even founded. You’ll survive.”

Sherlock made a face of the utmost disgust and rolled over, tucking his body so that he was curled in a ball with his back was to the room. John smiled over the rim of his mug before taking a barely satisfying sip of tea.

\-- 

When John first started living with Sherlock, he’d feared the man’s hyper-observance would expose him. While it was highly unlikely anyone would ever suspect what it was he truly was, John knew better than anyone that anything could be possible. He himself was the very definition of impossible, and Sherlock’s abilities were beyond compare. Still, even after months of cohabitation Sherlock never gave any sign of having even the slightest suspicion that there was more to John than met the eye. It seemed that his secret would be safe so long as he stayed vigilant and nothing happened to turn Sherlock’s scrutiny on him.

\--

“Find everything alright, sir?” asked the young girl with green hair and a brass nose ring from behind the counter. John looked down at the solitary milk bottle he was purchasing and nodded.

“Yea, yea I found everything just fine, thanks.”

The girl nodded, blank faced, and recorded his order with a few lazy strokes of her pen. This was what he hated about checkout. John could be a social person, but standing around while a stranger wrote him up and counted out his change was always just awkward. It always went the same way. Small talk was abandoned in favour of just watching the other person. He just wished there was a way he could just pay for his items without having to bother with forcing small talk. A self-automated checkout would be nice.

He picked up his paper bag with its solitary item and his change, giving the girl a congenial nod, and hurried toward the exit. He’d made it to the door when someone tried to come in through the same door he was about to use.

“Oh,” John pulled up short and stepped out of the way, “Sorry about that.”

The man in the doorway stood at least a head taller than John, all thick muscle and broad features. He looked about John's age, though he seemed to have less grey in his sandy hair and the only significant lines on his face seemed to be the dramatic crease around his brow. There was a moment where the man just looked down at John with a look akin to shock, though it only lasted a moment before the man’s face spread into a wide, good-natured grin and he stepped out of John’s way.

“My fault entirely,” he held the door open and made an almost shy gesture for John to pass through. “Always an embarrassing situation, eh?”

“Oh, er, yea,” John slid past awkwardly, “There’s really not much established social convention in this case.”

The man stepped through the door with a chuckle and another flash of smile, “You have a good day, yea?”

“Ah right,” John nodded, reflexively returning the man’s smile, “You too.”

He hurried off in the direction of home, eager to just get home and enjoy a nice, quiet day without gallivanting all over London after one criminal or another, or spending a long day at the surgery.

It didn’t take him long to make his way back to the flat. Five minutes later and he was walking through the door of 221b to find Sherlock hadn’t moved from his spot curled up on the sofa. John rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him with a loud click. If Sherlock wanted to sulk that was fine, but John was going to make his presence known.

“You didn’t get sugar?”

“Nope.”

Sherlock let out a long, dejected sigh that turned into a groan and he rolled onto his feet. He crossed the room and picked up his violin to begin to play an original piece John knew to be titled _Betrayal of the Finest_. He only knew what it was called because Sherlock had made a point of playing it the first time John had thrown out a particularly nasty experiment.

Sherlock’s back was to the room as the first slow, resounding notes filled the room, and John shook his head on his way to the kitchen, “If you’re going to sulk every time I don’t give you sugar, people might start talking.”

The music paused long enough for Sherlock to say, “Oh please, people already talk.”

“I just think you’re being overdramatic,” John placed the milk in the ice cabinet and threw the now crumpled paper bag into the bin.

“I wasn’t the one who threw a fit over a bit of lost milk.”

“Not lost, but I’m done arguing about it,” John walked back into the sitting room. Maybe he’d read his book.

“Now that you got your petty revenge.”

“Yep,” John sat down and picked up his copy of _The Adventures of Sherrinford and Ormond_ , thumbing it open to the page he’d last left it.

Sherlock made an aggravated noise, “You realize you’re just being petulant, do you not?”

“Learned from the best," John said, not having to look up from his book to know he’d successfully out-bantered Sherlock. The screeching noise from the violin said it all.

He allowed himself a quick glance anyway, long enough for him to catch Sherlock's small smile in the window's reflection. He went back to his reading with a smile of his own.


	3. The First Four Paragraphs Are Gory AF, So If You’re Squeamish Feel Free To Skip To “Sherlock Stood From…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the title suggests, there is a graphic description of a corpse at the beginning of this chapter, and it's referenced vaguely throughout. Also, there's a part in the flashback that could constitute as child abuse.

A few days later found the two of them at the scene of a gruesome murder in the basement at the Wisteria Inn.

Sherlock knelt down on the concrete floor close to where the dead man lay sprawled out on his stomach. John stood slightly back and watched the proceedings with a careful eye. They had investigated their fair share of murders in the past, but there was something disturbingly familiar about this one.

The dead man was headless and naked, with long large gashes running in curved intersecting angles down his back and deep enough to expose bone and organ tissue. Burnt skin and minimal blood loss marked cauterization slightly after wound infliction and the pattern of the burns pointed to fire propulsion being the cause. Not just fire though.

A manmade flame with this extent of damage would burn skin red, black, and yellow, and it would have a crinkly mottled texture. This man’s burns were smooth and bubbled as though he had been burned by boiling water, with colours emulating bruises with their smooth gradients of blue, purple, and green. It took all John had to keep himself from outwardly panicking.

Sherlock stood from his position on his knees and circled to the other side of the facedown dead man. “How long has the body been here?”

“A housekeeper found the body around five this morning,” Lestrade said from his place on the opposite side of the body to John and Sherlock, “but our forensics team places the time of death around eleven last night.”

“And they all agree it was a dragon that did this?”

“Well there’s some debate about that.”

“They’re debating the validity of obvious fact, why am I not surprised?”

“Oi, it’s not necessarily obvious. How do we know this isn’t someone trying to cover their tracks?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Are you really that obtuse, Lestrade? Look at the burn marks. The colour, the pattern, the texture, even the smell are all trademarks of dragon fire. Imitation of one or even two of these traits is possible, but all of them? Highly unlikely.”

“Even so, it isn’t exactly in a dragon’s nature to attack one person and leave it at that. This entire building would be up in flames or at the very least someone would have seen a great flying lizard leaving the scene.”

“In a typical case, yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “but dragons are naturally skilled in the art of concealment and people tend to grow complacent over time. Given the last dragon attack in London was almost a hundred and fifty years ago, people are less likely to stay vigilant. Perhaps attacking sequentially as opposed to mass devastation has become a part of this one’s modus operandi… for whatever reason.”

“If that's the case," Lestrade said thoughtfully, "it might be to aid in concealment."

“Sequential attacks would only increase the risk of being found. More opportunity for failure, more witnesses. No, there’s something more to this,” Sherlock turned his attention away from the body to John, “What do you think?”

John had stopped paying attention to their conversation long ago and instead focused his attention on the body. Lestrade was right, attacks like this were almost never isolated to one person and a fire dragon like this could not go unseen so soon after an attack. At least, not an attack as extensively executed. One certainly hadn’t when John encountered them in the open air of Afghanistan, and this was not a large building. There had to be a few dozen people wandering the halls and none of them were reported to have seen anything. In order to escape unnoticed, the dragon would have to be small. Much smaller than the claw marks on and surrounding the body suggested. Unless it could change its size, and the only kind of dragons he knew of that could do that were—

“John?”

John started and met Sherlock’s now narrowed gaze. What could he see on John’s face? What was he thinking?

“Sorry,” John shook his head. He needed to focus. “I just… Afghanistan.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Something in Sherlock’s eyes softened and he nodded, “Right. Go wait outside. I won’t be much longer.”

John nodded and marched out of the room. It wasn’t until he was outside that the tension finally left his body and his leg gave out. He slid down the wall and tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t believe it.

He knew he couldn’t be the only drakaine in the world. After all, he had to have had a birthfather since both his parents were completely human if Harry was to be believed. By logical extension, there had to be more. Still, the idea that someone out there was just like him but was capable of something so… not inhuman, that’s not the right word. John knew exactly the kind of horrors humans could be capable of. But that wasn’t the point now.

If John could see whoever did that, who knew what Sherlock could see? Now that he saw, who knew what Sherlock might start to think? It was so far from John now, but in time Sherlock might start picking up more, putting the pieces together, realizing that all the clues he’d put together for the case suggested a certain type of being. What if, in realizing this, he dug deeper in legend, separating fact from fiction and finding that his roommate embodied many of the same traits the killer might? What if he didn’t believe in the coincidence of two impossible creatures running about? What if he started to suspect-

John took a deep breath. He took another. He took several deep, sobering breaths until his heart felt like it was finally working at a healthy pace.

It was fine. Everything was fine. This was just a normal case with abnormal circumstances. Something they dealt with every day. For all he knew, he could be reading too much into it. He had to be projecting due to stress. Outside the room, he he felt a certain distance from the scene and began to doubt what he saw. There was no way it could be another drakaine. It was impossible. His panic had to be the result of his worry that Sherlock would somehow find out what he was. He was just worried about having to leave his friend and that had to be what was messing with his mind. Everything was fine.

Which meant that it had to be a dragon. A strange dragon, but a dragon nonetheless. Just because a dragon was the murderer didn’t mean they couldn’t handle this like every other case they solved. There was a crime and they’d find out who was responsible. It was as simple as that.

Everything would be fine.

 --

Fourteen-year-old Harriet Watson flipped through the newspaper at the kitchen table with disheartened desperation. Even with living in a small, creaky flat and minimal expenses, the last bills that came their way nearly left them destitute. She’d barely been able to afford food that week and if she didn’t get another job soon they might not be able to afford food at all.

After the last page revealed no potential prospects, Harry shoved the paper away from her. Tears burned at her eyes. It wasn’t fair. She had a little brother to take care of and every job offering was for ‘proper adults’. How was she supposed to sustain them on her own if no one would give them the chance?

At that moment John, five-years-old and terrified burst into the flat and slammed the door shut, resting his back up against it.

“Johnny?” Harriet quickly wiped away her tears and smoothed out the now crinkled newspaper, “What’s wrong?”

John met her gaze, his blue eyes brighter with tears and his breaths coming in sharp huffs. He stood there for a long moment until sobs wracked his tiny body and he rushed forward.

“Harry!” he leapt into her startled arms and smushed his face into her neck, “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so, so sorry!”

“Hey,” Harriet held her brother close and rubbed his back soothingly, “Hey, it’s alright. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I didn’t mean to,” John mumbled into her skin.

“John, tell me what happened. You’re scaring me.”

John sniffed and looked up to meet her eyes, “Mary saw me do fire magic.”

“What!?” Harriet grabbed John’s upper arms and held him back, “Tell me everything.”

John gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing as a few whimpering squeaks escaped. His eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets as he regarded her with a sort of pained fear. It was then Harriet realized how hard she was squeezing his arms. She sighed and forced herself to relax her grip.

“I’m sorry, Johnny, " she struggled to keep her voice calm. It wouldn't do to frighten the poor boy more than he already was. "Please, tell me what happened.”

“I-I,” John stammered, “I d-didn’t know anyone was watching. I was at the park an-and I was alone, and I was making sticks catch fire, and Mary saw me, and I stomped on the fire, and I ran and I came back here.”

Harriet let go of her brother and clenched her fists. This…

“Okay, It’s fine,” she said tightly as she stood and looked around the small, cluttered space for a rucksack, “Everything is going to be fine. We started over once, we can start over again. If we leave now, we should be gone before she tells anyone she saw her classmate turn into a dragon. Even if no one believes her, we shouldn’t risk-“

“I didn’t turn into a dragon,” John shook his head. Harriet stopped in her search through the closet and tried to process what John said.

“I’m sorry, what?” she furrowed her brow, “Didn’t you just say she saw you breathe fire?”

“Uh-huh, but she didn’t see me be a dragon. I was only playing with my breathing. I was setting sticks on fire with my human breath. I wasn’t a dragon, honestly.”

Harriet let out a deep breath. This was something they could handle, at least. Playing with fire was a lot easier to explain than a shape-shifting dragon child. She couldn’t fight the relieved laugh that bubbled out.

“I didn’t even know you could do that…”

“I didn’t either,” John shuffled his feet as he stared at the ground. “I just tried it today.”

“Okay…” Harriet thought quickly and walked over to the kitchen to riffle through one of the drawers. “Okay, I think I’ve got this. We can fix this.” She reached into the very back of the drawer and pulled out a box of matches. With a grin, she walked back over and knelt down in front of John.

“Take these,” she handed him the matchbox, which he took with chubby, careful fingers. “You said you were lighting sticks on fire? Get caught lighting these, but be careful because other people aren’t fireproof.”

“I know _that_ , Harry," John said in that particular way children do when adults talk down to them. "I do go to school.”

Harriet sighed, “Right, right.”

“But," John said as his brow crinkled with a thought. "Won’t I get in trouble for playing with matches? Why do I have to get caught doing something bad?”

This was going to be tricky. How could she explain this in a way John could understand?

“You might get in trouble for lighting matches… but it’s better than getting in trouble for turning into a dragon. They can only yell at you for playing with fire. They can kill you for being a dragon.”

John flipped the box over in his small fingers. “So I have to lie to protect my lie?”

“Yes,” Harriet hedged, “but if someone’s going to hurt you or someone you love, it’s okay to keep the truth from that someone. It’s not very good and the truth is often best, but if anyone finds you out they will kill you.”

John was quiet for a long moment and Harriet gently rubbed his arm. “You know I love you, Johnny. I promise that as long as I’m around I won’t ever let anyone hurt you for just being you. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” John put the box of matches into the chest pocket of his overalls. “So we don’t have to run away?”

Harriet shook her head. “Not if we’re careful. Just keep it a secret, okay Johnny? You can’t ever tell anyone.”

John nodded and wiped away his tears. “Okay, Harry. I promise.”

\-- 

John pulled his box of matches out of his pocket and flipped them over in his older, calloused hands. Deft fingers took out a match and he held it up in his eye line without lighting it. It was strange how after all these years the simple act of holding an unlit match had become something cathartic. He was fully aware it made him look like some kind of nutter, of course, but it wasn’t like it was an everyday habit. He could afford to look like a lunatic this once.

“John?”

Sherlock was standing over him with a curious head tilt that, in John’s experience, meant he was experiencing as close a feeling to concern as the man was capable. John nodded, pocketed the match with its box, and stood to attention.

“So,” he cleared his throat, “what did you learn from the body?”

Sherlock took a moment to scan John’s face, eyes dropping briefly to the pocket of matches and back before speaking.

“The man was an office worker, though for where I’m not sure. Extensive calluses on his right hand show he frequently keeps written documentation. I’m leaning towards an unmarried clerical worker given the lack of ring indentations and state of his nails. Muscular tone and the state of his feet suggest someone who regularly walked to work rather than go by automated transportation. I’ll be able to determine more once I get in touch with my contacts. Seems to have died from the damage caused by the slashes rather than blood loss. Not surprising given the burns. Cauterization seems to have been deliberate to prolong the man’s suffering. The head seems to have been bitten off as a means of concealing identity.”

There was a long pause wherein John suppressed a shudder of horror at the thought that someone could be capable of such monstrosity, let alone someone like him. From the look on Sherlock’s face, it seemed he realized he’d said something that was perhaps a bit not good and wasn’t sure how to fix it.

After a few moments of awkward silence, John cleared his throat and asked in as casual a voice as he could manage. “And the dragon?”

“That is the mystery,” something like a grin ticked at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but he kept his face neutral. “Highly unusual case. We know the man was definitely killed here given the claw and scorch marks on the floor, but not much else seems to fit.”

“I’d gathered that, yea,” John agreed and immediately regretted it.

Sherlock seemed surprised. “You have?”

“Well, I’d noticed the marks on the floor and the- the body, but that level of devastation seems consistent with a dragon of a much larger size than could have gotten into that room without damaging the entryways.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock said carefully. “Personal experience?”

“Er, yea,” John hedged. “Yea, a bit.”

“Afghanistan?”

“I would really rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“Right, yes,” Sherlock nodded very obviously uncomfortable. “I suppose you wouldn’t. In the meantime, we should, ah, should go get lunch. Hungry? Of course you’re hungry. Stupid question at this time of day. There’s a nice place up the street that serves excellent curry chicken. That would be relevant to you, er, this situation.”

John chuckled. Somehow it amazed him how despite his cool and generally unaffected exterior, Sherlock had the capacity to natter and flub words when he was trying to express something like an emotional response. It was comforting in its own way, like John was less alone.

“That sounds fantastic.”

“Right,” Sherlock all but leapt at John’s agreement. “Good. Let’s get going then. There’s nothing else for me to observe here. The rest of the scene was frustratingly clean. We can go down to the yard and see what little evidence they have that wasn’t told to them by me.”

“Right, because all the best minds of Scotland Yard are but pebbles compared to the mountain that is your intellect.”

“Hmm, your tone suggests sarcasm but your words are nothing more than romanticized fact. And you blame me for ‘people talking,’”

“I suppose I walked into that one,” John chuckled as they started down the path.


	4. What John Didn’t Know Was, When Sherlock Said ‘As You Wish’ What He Was Really Saying Was ‘I Love You’… Also More About The Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a graphic depiction of a decapitated head in one paragraph. It doesn't happen until the morgue, though and there is ample lead up.

Lunch was a mostly silent endeavour. John started to feel better as he ate his chicken, though he found he found only stomach about half before he started feeling nauseous again. Meanwhile, Sherlock hadn’t so much eaten as sat back in his chair with his hands on the table and resolutely looking but not looking at John.

After about twenty minutes, John took pity on him.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock jerked his head like he’d forgotten John could see him and settled back down in his seat. “I’ve just never seen you react that way to a crime scene. It hadn’t occurred to me just how big an impact Afghanistan had on you.”

“Oh,” John nodded, not quite sure what to say. “You know, I can still participate on this case. Now that I’m over the initial shock-“

“I hadn’t considered taking you off the case,” Sherlock shook his head, somehow sounding both condescending and soft. “As I said, it just got me thinking.”

“Ah.”

The two fell back into silence again. A silence, which lasted until the waiter brought them the check. John dropped a few notes onto the table, and then he and Sherlock took their leave. They were walking down the street when John spoke up again.

“You know, if you’re curious, you could ask," John said. When Sherlock's only response was a quizzical look, John cleared his throat and clarified. "About Afghanistan, I mean. I can’t guarantee I’ll answer everything, but you’re allowed to ask.”

“I don’t need to ask, I observe,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his tone suggested something else. “And I observed you shaking and pale at the sight of a mangled body. It’s not like I need particulars to deduce that it affected you. It’s just that I’d never seen you look so far from this world before. It was… unsettling.”

“Yea, panic attacks do that,” John nodded, feeling a slight hint of shame. “At least I saved the worst for outside. Couldn’t let you and Lestrade have a front row seat if you hadn’t even bought tickets.”

“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock agreed thoughtfully. “You are okay though, aren’t you? I know I haven’t asked, but you seem, er, you seem good. It’s okay if you’re not, but you seem good.”

“I’m good now, yea,” John ignored the comfortable warmth in his chest. “Thanks.”

“Good.”

John was about to let it go when he felt something hesitant slap over his head like the wings of a hummingbird. He nearly stopped in his tracks and looked at his friend with shock. “Did you just… pat my head?”

“I’ve seen people do it to alleviate the worries of others," Sherlock furrowed his brow in that confused way he did when a response to his attempts at social interaction wasn't quite what he expected. "Was that not good?”

John chuckled. “People mostly do that for children, mind. I know I’m not as tall as you but I’d assumed you deduced that I’m well past the age of head patting.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Not my fault you won’t accept a perfectly acceptable gesture.”

“Oh come on, Sherlock, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No matter,” Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll just have to find another gesture to make you feel better.”

John, for all the nonsense he expected to deal with when he started living with a madman, could not do more than gawp at Sherlock. “You do realize how that sounds, don’t you?" he asked when words finally came back to him. "As good as you are with reading people, you have to know how suggestive that sounds.”

Sherlock nodded, a gentle huff escaping his lips. “Then I suppose you’ll have to accept the gesture I’ve already given you.”

“Fine, yes. I accept it, just please. Stop with the talk of giving me gestures!”

“As you wish.”

 --

Nine-year-old Sherlock leaned heavily over his desk, a lazily hand casually batting a bulb on the perpetual motion sculpture in front of him. The dull orange light from the desk lamp cast dark shadows across the wood and caught the metal as the mechanism swung smoothly on its axes.

It was a rather lonely scene. But then, that was all Sherlock had ever known. Would ever know.

He breathed a miserable sigh.

There was the telltale creep of footsteps on carpet before the door handle turned and the hinges creaked. Bright yellow light intruded Sherlock’s space and set his teeth on edge.

“It’s hardly good form to be sitting alone in the dark like this, brother,” Mycroft’s voice broke through the quiet like nails on a chalkboard. “At the very least it’s a waste of time that could be spent honing your skills.”

“My mind is hardly stagnating, Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke in a soft voice. He didn’t move to look up at his brother, instead choosing to fall further forward. “I just don’t want to expend the effort to please you, mother, and father.”

“It’s not merely pleasing me or our parents. Your skills, while commendable, are far from the perfection a Holmes should strive to embody. Without proper training and regular upkeep, you might even descend to the ranks of the average.”

Sherlock made a face. “As if I could fall to so low a level.”

“Then come, brother. I see no reason to keep with this childish behaviour.”

With a great haul of effort, Sherlock stood to his feet and padded over to the door. Mycroft ruffled Sherlock’s curls in a rather mechanical way and escorted him down the lushly decorated hall.

“Caring isn’t an advantage, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled. “I realize that in the face of your schoolyard tormentors you may be inclined to… _feel_ , but you should learn to harden your heart against it. Your intellect. Your convictions. They’re all that matter on the battleground. Understand, little brother?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the pain in his chest. He pushed it lower, lower, and lower still until he felt something click within himself. The feelings that plagued him dissipated like smoke in the wind. When he opened his eyes, he felt nothing.

“I understand.”

 --

It was two days later when they got the telegram from Scotland Yard. They had had no information beyond what Sherlock had deduced apart from an observation from Sally Donovan that the claw marks, while impressively large, didn’t seem to penetrate as deep as they should have given their width. This lead Sherlock to believe the dragon must have some genetic abnormality or deformity.

John wasn’t sure how to feel about this.

They walked into the morgue at St Bart’s where they were greeted by Molly, sporting her usual lab coat, a pink dress dotted with little grey and white cats, and a pair of insulated medical gloves. She seemed unaffected by the freezing cold that comes with being so far underground, though the greenish glow of the fluorescent lights gave her usually pink blush a corpse-like sickliness.

“Hey, Sherlock! John,” she smiled a nervous greeting. “It's good to see you. Or, I mean, I wish we could see each other under better circumstances. It’s really a sight to see. Or rather, I’d rather not have seen it.”

“Molly, you’re a coroner," Sherlock pointed out. "Don’t tell me you’re going to lose your constitution now.”

“You won’t be saying that when you see it,” Molly shook her head and lead them to the other side of the room, her kitten heels clacking with each step. “Even you might have to take a minute to get over the initial shock.”

“It’s not like I’ve never seen a decapitated head before,” Sherlock said sounding increasingly condescending. “The same goes for you.”

They approached the wall of cold chambers and Molly unlocked one of the doors. With a raised eyebrow, she opened the door and pulled out the drawer to reveal something horrific.

“Well,” John swallowed, “that would definitely be a sight in the icebox.”

The head sat there, staring at them with gaping bloody sockets and a chelsea grin smile. The skin was mottled with dragon fire burns and hair was singed to extinction but for a few sparse tufts. Along the neck were torn ligaments and chopped skin which proved without a doubt that the had to be large enough to fit the entire head in its mouth. Most notable though, beyond the fire damage, tooth marks, and early signs of decomposition, was a single word etched into the forehead so deep that it was almost all the way through the frontal bone.

“’Hello’?” Sherlock read as he leaned in close so that he was eye to eyeless eye with the head. “Fascinating… John, if you want to step out of the room you can.”

John bristled with embarrassment. He knew Sherlock meant well, and he appreciated it, but what he didn’t appreciate how abrasive it felt for him to say like it was both a command and an announcement. Yes, John knew he had reacted badly at the first crime scene, but Sherlock certainly didn’t have to advertise his failings so casually in front of Molly. It made him feel weak.

“I think I can handle it just fine, Major.”

Sherlock seemed too lost in his analysis of the head to note the sarcasm, so John left him to it. He sidled up next to Molly. “So how did our friend get here?”

“In a cardboard box this morning,” said Molly. “Dropped right off at the morgue. No one saw who did it, but it hadn’t been there long before we realized what it was. I sent Lestrade a wire and he had his team document everything before they let me get at it. As far as I can tell, the head matches the body you found. I just wish there was a way I could perform more conclusive tests. But the burn marks and serration marks line up. The time of death is consistent as well.”

“That seems to be the only thing that is,” Sherlock stood up straight. “The head was clearly taken for the purposes of this message. That much we know from the post-mortem decapitation, but the question is why? This goes against everything we know about dragons. They don’t send messages, they don’t attack just one person, and they don’t do this!" He gestured at the head, particularly the vandalism on the face. "We must be missing something."

“Do you think someone was working with the dragon?” Molly asked tentatively. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time, historically speaking.”

“I’d already considered that, but it still doesn’t explain how the dragon got into the room in the first place. I scoured the scene and there was nothing. No structural damage. No secret tunnels. No hidden entrances. It’s as if the dragon just popped in and out of existence!”

“Or it got smaller,” Molly giggled at her own joke, but John noticed the light in Sherlock’s eye. That crucial spark of inspiration that meant he found a thread that could unravel the case if followed.

“Oh,” the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, “that makes this much more interesting.”


	5. You Know That Insanely Annoying Trope Where One Person is About To Tell The-Big-Secret™ But The Other Person Says Something That Stops Them? Here It Is!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No violence this chapter (phew!) but there is a lot of emotions. I'm talkin' fear. I'm talkin' betrayal. I'm talkin' twisted irony. Enjoy!
> 
> (I toyed with this idea a lot, but it's too late to change it now. Please don't think it's too cliché)
> 
> ALSO I DO NOT KNOW LATIN PLEASE CORRECT MY TRANSLATIONS IF THEY ARE BAD

 “So are you going to tell me your great revelation, or am I meant to figure it out on my own en route?”

The car swayed and jerked over every bump and dip in the road, aggravating John’s already uneasy stomach. He hoped that someone somewhere was working on improving automobiles to make for a smoother ride, though the cab seemed to have no adverse effects on Sherlock. The man would probably look just as undisturbed in a cyclone as he would in a gentle breeze.

“When we return home. There are some things that require privacy.”

“Right,” John leaned back in his seat. That gave him time to think, at least.

It seemed the conclusions he’d jumped to when he’d first seen the body were starting to ring true. A drakaine was the murderer. It didn't exactly surprise John, but it was still quite the let down to be ripped out of the comforts of denial and be proven right. So the next question John had to consider was what did Sherlock think it was?

While dragons were renowned for their abilities to hide, blend, evade, and camouflage, only one kind could grow smaller. Most people didn’t know that, or rather, most humans didn’t know that. John was confident that Sherlock was brilliant and knowledgeable enough, but going down this path without knowing what he was looking for could lead to a disastrous end. Either Sherlock would get caught up in looking for a suspect that was ‘possible’ and the real killer would get away, or worse, the killer would stay put and Sherlock could end up like the body they found.

John shuddered and shrugged the mental image of Sherlock bloodied and headless away. He risked a glance at his friend. Sherlock was looking out the window with a contemplative look on his face. Not overly serious or frustrated, just thoughtful. Like he was considering something. But then, it was rare for him not to be doing so. It was a familiar scene, and one that softened something in John’s chest.

Their eyes met when Sherlock suddenly glanced over and John looked away. He would never forgive himself if something happened to Sherlock and he had knowledge that could have prevented it from happening. This could be a life or death case, especially since the killer seemed intent on engaging them in some sick, twisted game if the head was anything to go by.

John looked out the window at the passing city. He knew what he had to do.

\-- 

Sherlock was a mass of energy when they stepped through the door to their flat. John watched him flit about, checking the rooms for Mrs Hudson and then pulling the curtains shut against the twilit sky with gusto. He was clearly vamping up to something.

 _Do it now before you lose your nerve, Watson,_ John thought as he took a deep breath. “Sherlock, there’s something-“

“Whatever it is, it will have to wait,” Sherlock said, making sure there were no uncovered spots that someone could use to see inside. “I have something important to tell you. Lock the door, will you?”

John rolled his eyes at the insinuation, but closed and locked the door. His heart was frantic and fast as he carefully crossed the room to sit down in his chair. “I have something important to tell you too, but it–“

“If there’s a ‘but’ then it can wait,” Sherlock took a key on a chain from around his neck and stood by the fireplace. “For now, I’m about to let you in on something you may find yourself disbelieving, though I can assure you that it’s more possible than you could imagine. Have you ever heard of a creature called a drakaine?”

John tensed at the word. Where was Sherlock going with this? A thousand possibilities and old fears rushed to the forefront of his mind but he pushed against them as best as he could. He focused on calming his heart and keeping his face neutral. It proved surprisingly difficult despite practicing his entire life.

“I’ve heard a lot about drakaine since childhood,” he began carefully, “Why?”

Sherlock grinned. “Do you believe in them?”

“Believe in them?” John repeated, for a lack of any better response. What was Sherlock playing at?

“Shall I take your confusion as a no, then?”

John just stared at Sherlock, finding words weren’t at all wanting to make themselves known in his brain. The silence stretched while John tried in vain to find anything that could constitute as a coherent answer to Sherlock’s question.

“John, what I’m about to tell you could quite arguably be considered an exercise in insanity, but I can assure you every word is true.”

Words finally started flitting into John’s mind long enough for him to wrangle a few. “Wait, hold on. You… believe in drakaine?”

“Hard to believe given the generally accepted opinions of the public,” Sherlock conceded. “Along with the fact that most who believe in them have a less than reputable history with sanity.”

“Well, yes,” John said slowly, “but more than that, I didn’t take you to be the type to believe in something without strong, empirical evidence. If there were such evidence, surely more people would believe in them. But there isn’t beyond the fairytales and other literary evidence, not publically anyway, so the question remains. Why do you?”

“It’s part of my business to believe,” Sherlock’s voice adopted an ominous tone. “That, and I believe the evidence provided by my own senses.”

“What,” John’s voice was shaky. He coughed once to restore its strength. “What do you mean?”

“John, I think it’s time you know something about me. I haven’t told anyone before, but then, it’s not like I’ve ever had anyone worth telling.” Sherlock seemed to hesitate a moment before levelling John with a stern gaze. “I know I haven’t known you more than a few months, but for me that’s more than enough time to deduce the kind of person you are. I trust that you know how to keep a secret?”

“I’m fairly confident in my ability to keep a secret,” John nodded. “Just, what is it exactly?”

Sherlock seemed to relax and turned to the fireplace, though John could still see his face in profile. If it weren't for how serious the situation was, John would have make a joke about being needlessly dramatic.

“In my younger years, my family travelled a great deal,” Sherlock ran his hand over the mantel as he reminisced. “While spending a time in Ireland, I crossed paths with a small, white dragon. It spotted me when I made the stupid mistake of gasping at the sight of it tearing into some poor boy. I suppose our similarity in age caused some sentimental reaction.

“The dragon came at me, but it hadn’t counted on how agile I was. Our battle didn’t last long, as the sound alerted Mycroft and our parents to our struggles. It fled, but not before I’d outsmarted it to climb on its back and break off a horn. It bucked and threw me to the ground before grabbing its victim and taking flight. Disappointed, I took my prize and stored it in my satchel.

“When a fortnight of our search failed to find any trace of the dragon, Mycroft began to doubt my story. I can’t blame him of course. The dragon had been gone by the time they arrived and when the body turned up on the coast, water damage had obscured much of the evidence. What was worse, the evidence I’d obtained myself had not been fit to be counted as evidence.”

John, who had been oddly transfixed by the story found himself asking, “What do you mean?”

A grim expression lined Sherlock's face. “When I’d reached into my satchel to show off the horn the evening of the attack, it wasn’t a horn I found. In it’s place, I found a clump of bloodied black hair.”

There was a long silence that stretched so long it seemed nothing but the room they were in existed. John searched Sherlock’s face for something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. When he didn’t find it, he cleared his throat. “How could that happen?”

“That’s what I’d asked myself,” Sherlock said with a small grin. “I’d had my satchel with me the entire day, never letting it leave my side. As a master pick pocket myself, I knew even then that no one had taken or given anything to me. It was impossible that it should have happened. The perfect mystery.

“When I started researching this phenomenon, I somehow always found myself arriving at the mythology section of the library. Always leading myself to drakaine. Mycroft thought I was mad, of course he did. It was scientifically impossible for a dragon horn to turn to human hair, but when considering the magical nature of dragons, it seems more likely than not. The more I researched, the more convinced I became. The reason the horn had transmogrified into hair was due to the remnants of life that echoed back when the drakaine changed form. Had the creature stayed in one form for longer than a day, I might not have made this discovery.”

“Okay,” John began slowly, “that explains why you believe, I suppose. Would I be wrong to suppose the reason you’re telling me this is because you believe a drakaine committed this murder?”

“No, for once you would be entirely correct.” Sherlock sounded almost proud.

“Wait, hang on,” John realized something, “Something doesn’t make sense. If you were a boy when you found this dragon, how were you able to combat it? Why were you, specifically you and your family, chasing after it once it disappeared? Wouldn't it have been better to have alerted the Order?”

Sherlock took his key and inserted it into a crack in the brick. There was a clanking noise as her turned it and the entire mantel of the fireplace lifted, assorted knickknacks falling over the edge with the movement, to reveal a secret compartment. Sherlock reached into the darkened hiding place and pulled out a circular gold medallion. He brushed off some dust and grime before handing it over to John to inspect.

John took it in his hands and turned it over. There was an emblem of inlaid jade in the form of a dragon in profile, with a ruby for the eye and mother of pearl for teeth. Intricate lines gave the appearance of scales and the ornate detailing gave the small dragon an almost lifelike appearance, but John’s eye was most drawn to the image of a silver sword sticking out of the dragon’s stomach, more inlayed rubies glistening like blood from a wound. A ring of more jade encircled the entire scene, which itself was encircled by engravings. John turned the medallion so he could read the words.

_Humana Vita Mors Est Draco. Nos Sumus Custodes Iustitiam_

John wasn’t very proficient in Latin, but he recognized the mission statement in an instant. “ _Human life is the death of the dragon. We are the guardians of justice_ ,” he recited from memory. With mounting horror, he stared into the tiny dragon’s ruby eye. “You’re a dragon slayer.”

“The Order has come a long was since it’s cultish beginnings,” Sherlock said, seemingly unaware of John’s internal panic, “but even with the allowance of new blood to join the lower ranks, it’s the ancient families that truly run it. I haven’t felt the need to participate in my familial obligations in quite some time, what with London being perfectly safe and Mycroft’s network meddling in everything. But with the chance to make this discovery, to achieve what no previous slayer could. Well, how could I possibly back down? The hunt will finally be interesting!”

John didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say. His best friend, the man he was willing to do anything to protect, was one of the people who would be first in line to see John’s head roll. He felt sick.

“John?” Sherlock asked, finally sounding concerned. _Concerned._ Oh, if he only knew. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” John lied, handing back the medallion. He wanted it as far away from himself as possible. Sherlock took the medallion back and went to store it in its compartment. John cleared his throat and forced himself to relax. “I just, I can’t believe you’d trust me with this. I thought members weren’t supposed to reveal themselves to just anyone.”

“Mostly that rule is to protect our identities in case of dragon attacks. It keeps us from the centre of the dartboard, so to speak. In this day and age, though, it’s also partly tradition.” Sherlock sneered at the last word.

“Ah,” John nodded, “I see.”

Silence descended again as Sherlock seemed to be building up to say something. John found he could not do more than stare over at the mantel without risking the loss of the calm veneer he hoped Sherlock couldn’t see past. There was no possible way this could possible make him feel worse.

Sherlock took a deep breath and seemed reluctant to look John in the eye. “I told you this because the case won’t make sense to you if you don’t know what we’re looking for. You would likely not have believed me without proof of both my knowledge and my background. What’s worse, you might have doubted my expertise and ignored a crucial order in a time of great importance. I don’t want you getting hurt, John. You… you mean a lot to me.”

John just stared, feeling too numb for the words to sink in fully. It felt like the punch line of some sick joke that robbed him of whatever warmth that should have given him. By the time they registered, Sherlock was looking at him with mild anxiety.

“Oh,” John blinked himself back into concentration. “I- I mean, that is- I care about you too, Sherlock. Thank you for telling me.”

Sherlock smiled and closed the fireplace with another turn of the key, which he then draped around his neck again. John took the opportunity to stand up and stretch.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night. I have a lot to process if I’m going to be useful on this case.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement and smiled. “Good night, John. I hope you rest well.”

John nodded and ventured for the stairs, forcing himself to say calm until he’d reached the isolation of his bedroom and locked the door. He collapsed on the bed and buried his face into his pillow. How on earth could he have missed something this vital?

He thought back to the crime scene. Sherlock had known instantly that it was a genuine dragon attack despite the incongruent evidence. He’d known and John hadn’t realized, hadn’t even suspected. God, he felt so _stupid._

But then, Sherlock either knew everything about a subject or next to nothing. John supposed it could be forgiven that he hadn’t sensed the danger. Was it a danger? No, it was Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn’t hurt him. Would he? No. Maybe? No. Perhaps it was best not to risk it.

Of course he couldn’t risk it. Even if Sherlock discovered the truth and chose to let him be, years of what most likely amounted to brainwashing meant it would effectively ruin their friendship. John couldn’t stand the thought of not having Sherlock’s companionship in his life. But then, how could he remain friends with someone who would see everyone like him dead?

About an hour and countless hyperventilated breaths later, two thoughts solidified themselves in his mind.

1) This case was going to be far more difficult than he’d ever anticipated,

and

2) There was no way he could ever, would ever tell Sherlock the truth.


	6. Sherlock Isn’t In This Chapter Much, But We Get More Watson Back Story and Sibling Insight... That's Cool Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No violence! Just people sitting around and talking

John still felt terrible the next morning but at least there was enough distance that the threat no longer felt immediate. Still, he stayed in bed for a good twenty minutes before he felt prepared to get ready for the day. He did so absently, not really coming back to himself until we was wiping steam off the bathroom mirror. He had to admit that he looked rough. Staring into his shadowed, bloodshot eyes, he realized he couldn’t deal with this on his own. He’d have to talk to Harriet.

This was going to be a rough conversation.

When he finished his routine he made his way through the sitting room, where Sherlock stood in front of the wall with various writings and pictures arranged in a way that had to make sense somehow. John didn’t pay much attention, instead trying to find a believable way out of the flat. Granted, Sherlock never seemed to notice when he left the flat before but—

“Where are you going?”

Shit. John paused in the process of reaching for his coat and noted Sherlock hadn’t looked away from his careful study of his wall. John grabbed his coat and pulled it over his shoulders.

“I need to check my schedule for the surgery,” he wasn’t sure where the lie came from, but it was out now and he may as well roll with it. “I’d wire in, but I could use the exercise.”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, only half paying attention, “Stop buy the library while you’re out. I have an extensive collection of lore and historical documents here, but they might have something there.”

“Right,” John nodded, glancing at the wall which he now realized was an amalgamation of facts and fictions on drakaine. He really should have seen this coming. “Any particular titles?”

“I don’t know how much overlap there is between collections. Just check out whatever they have available.”

“Right,” John said again and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Of course you wouldn’t have a list. Why would you have a list?”

Sherlock said nothing, instead choosing to unpin one slip of paper to pin it in a new spot a foot away. With a sigh, John started out of the flat.

\-- 

Harriet trembled, eleven-years-old and terrified, as she tried to console her fussy little brother in the back of a transport van. The driver hadn’t noticed them yet, but there was no way he could miss a crying toddler for much longer and they couldn’t go back. Not now when she knew exactly what would happen when they did.

“Shh, Johnny. It’s okay.” She bounced her brother in her lap like she’d seen their mother do back when Harriet had considered her a mother. “It’s okay, but you have to be quiet.”

John didn’t want to settle down and his protests were getting louder. Harriet hazarded a glance to the front and pulled John closer to her chest. With a small groan, his skin rippled and his baby softness began to give way to smooth scales.

“John please, I’m trying to help you.”

They went over a bump in the road and Harriet tightened her arms around the small, squirmy boy. She buried her face in his hair, ignoring the scrape of a small budding horn against her forehead, and gently rubbed his back between the bump his sprouting wings made under his shirt. After a few moments, John’s protests changed to soft hiccoughs and whimpering.

“That’s it,” Harriet loosened her hold and pulled back enough to meet John’s blue eyes, always the same no matter which form he took. It reassured her that despite his half draconian form, she was doing the right thing. She smiled. “See, Johnny, it’s okay. I’m here for you.”

John gave a final whine and Harriet watched in amazement as his draconian features rippled and melted back into human form. Harriet kissed his little forehead and let him rest against her chest. Somehow, they’d make it through this.

 --

John took a deep breath and knocked on the door of Harriet’s flat. He listened for the sound of her making her way to answer the door, feeling both nervous at the prospect of seeing her for the first time since he got back from Afghanistan and relief that she sounded like she was walking not stumbling.

The lock clicked and the door opened. Harriet stood there in blue jeans and a brown sweater that John knew covered a sizable burn scar on her shoulder. After a moment of surprise, Harriet smiled.

“John,” she stepped back and gestured for him to come in. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” John said and followed her inside. “Sorry it’s been a while.”

The flat was cleaner than John had been expecting. The floor could use a good hoovering and there were a fair few more liquor bottles lying around than John would have liked, but otherwise it seemed cosy enough. Harriet had finally gotten around to putting up a few bookshelves in the sitting room at least.

“You look like you’re doing well,” John said for a lack of anything else to say. “Not that you shouldn’t be, I just… you look well.”

“Thanks,” Harriet said vaguely and gestured for him to sit at the table. He did while she flitted about the cupboards. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? I think I might still have those biscuits you and Clara used to like—“

“It’s fine, Harry,” John interrupted. “I just- I need to talk to you.”

Harriet furrowed her brow, but nodded and took a seat across the table from John. “I hadn’t expected to get a visit from you. I wasn’t sure if you had gotten my letters, so seeing you… it’s unexpected.”

“Sorry,” John apologized. “I know I should have kept in touch. Especially after…” he gestured vaguely to her shoulder.

“It’s fine, I get it,” Harriet waved him off. “Sometimes it takes a while. God knows I needed some time myself. I just wish you hadn’t had to leave the country and get shot at because you thought you needed to be punished or whatever.”

“That’s not—“ John was about to argue but shook his head. Now was not the time. “Doesn’t matter. Not why I’m here. I need your help.”

“Oh no,” Harriet said as dread bloomed over her face. “I know that tone Johnny, what did you do?”

“Nothing _I’ve_ done,” John suddenly felt like he was a child again. “It’s this case Sherlock and I are working.”

“A case?” Harriet’s brows drew together and John launched into the details of the murder. When it came to the revelation of Sherlock’s family lineage, Harriet’s brows had practically disappeared into her hairline.

“John you have to move out of that place today,” Harriet said urgently. “Come live with me, I don’t care for how long. Just get out of that flat and away from that man.”

“I don’t know,” John rubbed a hand down his face. He had expected that response, but something about it threw him through a loop. “I know that’s the smart thing to do—“

“It’s the only thing to do,” Harriet’s voice turned incredulous. “John, you know you can’t stay there. I’ve read that casebook you published, and if he can solve all those cases in a few months, how long do you think it will take him to solve you?”

“You read my casebook?”

“Of course I did, it’s not like you were all too keen on keeping me in the loop otherwise.” That hurt, but John supposed he deserved it. Harriet sighed, “Look, I know we haven’t always had the best relationship. I’m not stupid. I know that there are things that we could have done better. That I could have done better. The alcohol was certainly a mistake.”

That hung heavy in the air and guilt settled heavily in John’s chest. Remnants of old arguments drifted in his head and there was a need to just say something. Anything.

“Harry—“

“Don’t,” Harriet held up a hand, a dangerous glint in her blue eyes, “I know you mean well, but please. Don’t. John, I care about you. You have to see why you can’t stay there.”

“I do,” John nodded. “I just can’t leave yet.”

“Why?”

“If I leave now, that will just send Sherlock asking why. If I didn’t leave after finding pigs blood all over the carpet, why would I leave during the most interesting case we’ve come across?”

Harriet clicked her tongue. “I suppose it’s not like you could tell him the danger would be too much.”

“That more than anything might get him thinking something’s off.”

“Right,” Harriet sighed. “Right. So staying there might actually be safer because at least you could keep an eye on his process. Keep his suspicions from landing on you. I know you’re no murderer, but if Sherlock finds out you aren’t fully human he might not bother looking for another suspect. Those slayers are all the same.”

“Not Sherlock,” John said before he could stop himself. “At least, I don’t think.”

Harriet shifted in her seat and her eyes grew sympathetic. “John, I know he’s your friend, but you can’t let that blind you to the fact that this person is dangerous. You know better than most how people let their ideologies get in the way of everything else. Even people they supposedly care about.”

John let that hang in the air. Harriet was right, of course she was. It still hurt.

“Going along those lines,” Harriet began, clearly uncomfortable. “Do you have any idea who the real killer is?”

“The only drakaine I know of is me. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“What about, y’know… your father?”

That was a point John had been trying to both think and not think about. Without any other leads, it was the most obvious train of thought to go down. He shook his head, “I don’t know. Could be.”

“I wish I could do more to help you,” Harriet crossed her arms over the table. “The only thing I really know about him is that he only ever came 'round at night.”

"... and that he disappeared a few months after I was born,” John finished.

“That too,” Harriet allowed. “And without a name, viable description, or resources that won’t ask questions it’s not like we can just look him up.” She leaned back in her seat with a thoughtful expression. “We make very bad detectives.”

John couldn’t stop the laugh before it was out. “Speak for yourself. I can manage just fine, thanks.”

Harriet returned the laugh, but something in her eyes grew sombre. “You will. You’re clever and I know you know how to survive.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“You’re welcome,” Harriet said as a mischievous light sparked in her eyes. “And because you’re so clever, you also know how to drop a line every now and then. I want to help you, you berk!”

“I know, I know,” John nodded, “I get it, I’ll keep in touch.”

“Good,” Harriet smirked. “Because if you go off an get yourself killed after all my hard work I’ll be rather put out.”


	7. There's Some Sneaky Princess Bride References In Here So I Hope Y'all Are Ready For A Treasure Hunt! Oh, And There's More Backstory Snippets So That's Cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this update was a long time coming. It's a little longer than the usual chapters, so I hope that helps. Sorry I've been so busy with work, getting ready to go back to school, family drama, and blah blah bleh blah bleh. Life is hard. But, I finished this chapter so yay for me! I don't know when the next chapter will be posted, but for now, here's this.

Hours later, tendrils of anxiety crept their way back to the forefront of John’s mind as the door of 221b stared menacingly back, mocking him with the knowledge that not even his own home could be trusted.

Well, there was only so long he could put off opening a door. He’d made it to the bottom step when he heard Sherlock talking to someone, though the words were hushed and indistinct. A moment later another familiar voice answered, equally obscure but still recognizable.

 _Mycroft?_ What was _Mycroft_ doing there?

He closed his eyes and concentrated with all his intent on picking out the words. With his focus sharpened, the words became clear and he half worried his heart might just hammer its way out of his chest.

“… it’s really inconceivable that a mind like yours could possibly believe such fairytale drivel. Given our family stock, I would have expected better from you.”

“Really? I would have thought that a mind like mine believing this ‘drivel’ is proof of its credibility. It’s hardly the first time a seemingly improbable idea was proven true as the result of someone’s brilliance.”

“You’re hardly Copernicus, Sherlock.”

“Who?”

John couldn’t help the upturned quirk of his lips. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t know who Copernicus was. The moment was gone as quickly as it came when he remembered what they were talking about. With a sharp intake of breath, he made his way up the stairs at his usual pace and volume.

The brothers turned to him as he entered, both standing in front of Sherlock’s wall. Mycroft greeted him with a bored bob of his brow, as though the effort of actually nodding was too much of an inconvenience to be wasted on John. Sherlock however, looked John over, eyes dropping to John’s shoes before lingering on his hands.

“You didn’t stop by the library.”

John blinked in surprise, he’d completely forgotten about that. He cast a nervous glance to Mycroft before turning his attention back to Sherlock. At least, he was going to turn his attention to Sherlock until Mycroft huffed a long suffering sigh and John realized he let his gaze rest on the fireplace.

“Of course you told him,” Mycroft sighed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes and fixed his brother with a stony glare. “Really, brother, would it kill you to hold at least some traditions sacred?”

“Considering my line of work, it really could,” said Sherlock with a wry smile. “Of course, if I knew it would disappoint you so, I would have told him much earlier.”

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft said pointedly, “you told him. And given that he knows, it’s not surprising that he didn’t indulge your fantasy by way of supplying you with more nonsensical texts,” Mycroft gestured to the collection of open books strewn about the room. “He may be dull, but even he has enough sense to see that you’re clinging to the cliffs of insanity.”

“I can speak for myself, thanks,” John muttered, but his words unheeded. Self-absorbed gits.

“Since when are you a poet, _brother mine_?” Sherlock asked with a sarcastic venom only a Holmes could produce. Mycroft raised a brow and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Since you decided to become a conspiracy theorist.”

Sherlock bristled and his tone turned acidic. “Don’t you have a country to run? I’m sure you’re aching to get back to your prestigious line of work with its long and glorious tradition.”

“Mock me all you like,” Mycroft shook his head, “but remember that you’re not infallible. The sooner you give up on these fairytales, the better.” 

He pulled out his pocket watch, a posh one it looked like, gold plated face and intricate workings visible through polished glass. John pat his pocket self-consciously as he considered how that watch would make the tarnished brass one Harry had given John seem even shoddier by comparison.

“Well I should be getting back. Lots of work to do, people to meet, land wars in Asia to prevent. Do try to think like a rational person.” Mycroft turned to John and gave him a congenial nod. Or at least, he nodded with less superiority than usual. “Always a pleasure, Doctor Watson.”

“Right,” John nodded back. “Good to see you.”

Mycroft passed John to leave, the brief proximity setting John’s teeth on edge. It was only when the front door closed that John turned back to Sherlock. “What did he want to talk about?”

“Just the usual,” Sherlock glared at the doorway. “He came in to take up space, imply I’m lucky that he hasn’t had me institutionalized, and generally antagonize me.”

“Oh,” John nodded, “that’s… how did he find out about the case so quickly?”

“With all his lackeys spying on us, I’m surprised he didn’t come to lecture me earlier. He’s slipping.” Sherlock smirked, evidently thrilled at the prospect of Mycroft losing his touch. “Anyway,” Sherlock said and clapped his hands together. “I’m through talking about my self important pig brother. We have a case to work.”

John looked at the wall of various clippings and other information. It was then he noted the addition of a few more grainy black and white images of dragons varying from blurred forms with terrible white flames or dense gray mist spewing from their mouths to too still bodies marred with horrible black gashes and pools of what could only be blood spreading out beneath them. John took a deep breath.

“Right,” he said turning back to Sherlock and forcing a smile, “let’s get to it then.”

\-- 

A surge of noise erupted around their camp. Noise was a thing you grew used to in the war, much like spontaneous drills and sock shortages. But this noise was different than army-mates getting on or weaponry firing off. It was the sound of fear, and awe, and fury. It was this discordance with what John expected that lured him out of his tent.

He barely noticed the crowd when he turned his head to find a great sandy brown dragon bound with rope, drawing ever closer as their infantry’s horses dragged it and the carts it occupied across the dry, dusty earth.

John didn’t think. He ran through the swarm or soldiers toward the approaching party, occasionally faltering as some of the more self-preserving soldiers barrelled into him in their efforts to get as far from the dragon as possible. The majority, however, joined the crowd in shouting down the soldiers leading the horses in their task.

“Are you out of your mind!?”

“Get that thing away from here!”

“It’ll bring the end of us. To the pain for all!”

His fellow soldiers fell back about a dozen or so metres from where the approaching party stopped, but John kept moving forward. He wasn’t so much conscious that he was, but rather, he was drawn forward as though he was entranced.

He’d never seen another dragon before, let alone one so close. It looked so different from what he knew, and yet, he could almost see himself in it. His eyes were fixated on its form, taking in every detail he could. The hardened dry scales that could easily be mistaken for sand at a distance. The long, intimidating horns that crowned its head. The spiked protrusions that ran along its spine in two parallel rows and merged at the tail. The rope tied tight around its boxy snout. The large, angry gash in its side, just under its restrained wing.

John finally tore his eyes away from the dragon to glare at his soldiers.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing a dragon here?” He eyed each of them with, taking a sort of pride in the way a majority of the eleven soldiers looked fearfully caught. “Have you lost your damned minds? Do you know what you’ve just done?”

The leader of the party, Richards, stood to attention and saluted.

“Sir,” she began assuredly, “it’s not the fault of the party. It’s all mine. We were scouting some of the caves to the Northeast when we found this one trying to burrow into the dirt. We suspect the injury kept it grounded or it would have flown off when it saw us. It’s a miracle we all made it back unharmed, let alone were able to restrain it. A beast like this could slaughter an entire village if it had a mind to.”

“So why not kill it on the spot?” A voice from behind drew John’s focus and Major Sholto drawing up to his shoulder. John snapped to attention and saluted. Sholto waved a hand. “At ease, Captain.”

“Sir,” Richards saluted again, “with all due respect, we can’t kill this creature. Not yet. I studied life sciences while I was in training, and would have gone further if I hadn’t been promoted. In all that time, I learned that there hasn’t been a record of a captive dragon in over three hundred years. Think of all we can learn and accomplish from studying this one. If we conduct enough experiments and we’re lucky, we could even learn what cloaking techniques it uses and how to imitate it. Give us an edge over others. Besides, look.” She took out her revolver and shot the dragon in the side of its neck. The dragon gave a muzzled cry of pain, thrashing against its bonds, but the bullet couldn’t pierce the scale even from only a few metres away. After a moment it slumped to the ground and gave a great huff.

Richards grinned as a few of the others laughed. "Imagine finding a way for us to imitate a resistance like  _that."_

Something stirred in John’s chest as he watched the dragon huff deep, pained breaths. He found himself hating the entire party that could have nothing in their heart to stop them from taking advantage of this poor being. How dare they mock its pain? Before he could work himself into a rage, Sholto’s voice cut through the haze.

“Makes you wonder what kind of thing could damage it like that in the first place.” Sholto nodded. “Alright. I’ll send word to get some sort of containment squad ready to ship this thing back home. In the meantime, make sure it’s secured properly. I don’t want to advance the name of science if it means the massacre of my soldiers. If it gets loose or one of us get hurt, I’ll do everything in my power to not only kill it but to make sure you’re tried for treason.”

“Sir,” John made to protest, but something stopped him. He knew the stories of dragons, of course he did. He knew what they were capable of and the majority of it stained the the history books red. Still, this was a creature just like him. Who knew how similar they were? He couldn’t let them take it off to be experimented on. But then, to suggest otherwise would be to point suspicion at him. They’d keep a watch on him, they’d follow him, and it would just take one slip up to…

“Yes, Watson?” Sholto prompted.

John fought to keep the resignation from his voice. “I’ll assemble a team to guard the creature. I’ll stay close by in case things take a turn.”

“That's a man, Watson,” Sholto grinned and clapped John on the back. Their eyes met and Sholto’s grin broadened. “I’m glad I can count on you.”

John was about to respond when the dragon growled low in its throat. At the same moment there was a push in John’s mind, like someone had cracked something hard against the back of his head and in doing so transferred a part of themselves with it. John turned around and saw the dragon staring at him with its bright orange, catlike eyes. Having established eye contact, its lids closed in a slow and deliberate blink. The push came again, less painful this time, but just as forceful. Abstract thoughts that were not his own and he couldn’t understand flooded his brain. What was happening?

John looked at the other soldiers, who didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, but instead, were triple checking the ropes and laughing amongst themselves. He looked back to Sholto, who gave him an odd look.

“You alright?”

“Yea,” John lied. “Just can’t quite believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Myself, neither,” Sholto agreed. “We better get to work on trying to find a way to neutralize the beast before it gets the chance in breaks out. I will not be the Major who let his officers die because of a great giant lizard. You get on and find those volunteer guards, yea?”

“Right,” John nodded, with one last look back at the dragon. Its eyes were trained on him, intelligent and piercing, and suddenly it clicked. It was trying to communicate. It _knew_.

 --

John’s scar twinged as he leafed through the third stack of papers and trying to decipher the important bits from the poetic filler. Or rather, tried to pick out any important bits out of the gross inaccuracies and depressingly bad theories. He rubbed the pain absentmindedly, his mind still trying to comprehend everything he was reading.

“Shoulder bothering you?” Sherlock said from his spot on the couch.

“A bit,” John said, not bothering to look up. “It happens.”

Sherlock gave a hum of acknowledgement and they fell into silence again. A few minutes later, his shoulder gave a sharp jolt again. John planned on doing his best to ignore it, but Sherlock threw his stack of papers down on the coffee table and stalked off to the kitchen. A prickle of irritation crept up and John huffed. It was fine though. If Sherlock wanted to throw a fit because John’s war injury was distracting him from his reading, he could go off and do it for all John cared.

It was when he heard the sound of running water followed by the click of the stove that he realized what was happening. Sherlock returned a few moments later with a cup of tea and a paracetamol tablet in hand. John, meanwhile, found he could do no more than stare that the offerings with a vague sense of confusion.

“If you’re going to be of any use on this case, you had best get on with taking care of yourself." Sherlock raised a brow. "I thought you were supposed to be a doctor?”

It was the teasing tone that had John burst into laughter. He’d spent the past day nearly terrified that Sherlock would somehow discover his secret that he’d almost forgotten that Sherlock was his friend. The realization, while changing nothing about his fears, somehow managed to make them less important. Something to be remembered, certainly, but not something that had to consume his every thought. It was almost comforting.

“What is it?” Sherlock sounded a little affronted.

“Nothing,” John shook his head and accepted the tea after taking the paracetamol. “Just a little odd seeing this side of you. Who’d have thought you had such good bedside manner?”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m hardly at your bedside, and I’m sure that we both know how abysmal a job I’d do if I was. There’s a reason you’re the doctor.”

“Yea, I was stupid enough to waste all that time in medical school when I could have been solving mysteries or learning the finer art of wearing a long coat.”

Sherlock laughed and retreated back to his spot on the couch. “It’s hardly a practiced skill. If you have the stature for it.”

“Are you saying I’m too short?”

“Well done! Mystery solved! Who said you couldn’t do it all?”

John grinned and shook his head. He’d missed this.


	8. Sherlock Is A Smitten Kitten And Research Is Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all Sherlock's perspective y'all! I know people are probably wondering what the hell these guys have written down and I promise you will see in the next chapter. I couldn't find a natural place to put in all their hard work this time around. 
> 
> ALSO MY FRENCH IS MUCH BETTER THAN MY LATIN, BUT IT'S STILL NOT AS GOOD AS MY ENGLISH. PLEASE INFORM ME OF ERRORS.
> 
> *Note: Sherlock is not being romantic in French. I don't want to get your hopes up for nothing

Seventeen-year-old Sherlock rifled through his desk. _Deciphered codes. Notes on tobacco ash. Today’s newspaper. Strategically broken pens._ No. They had to be here. He didn’t move them, so unless someone broke into his room and-

“You can stop looking, they’re gone.”

_Mycroft._

"What did you do with my notes?” Sherlock spun around to glare daggers at his brother. He looked so smug, standing in the doorway in his expensive new suit for his new job.

“I confiscated them,” Mycroft drawled. “It’s obvious you’re committed to this delusion of yours.”

“Your perceptions are not grounds for the confiscation of my things!”

“You worry me, Sherlock,” Mycroft toyed with the handle of his umbrella, _that stupid umbrella_ , “and as your older brother, it’s important that I look out for you.”

“This has nothing to do with me. You’re just upset that you’re not allowed the power you’d hoped you’d get in a government position. So now you’re taking it out on me.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a long-suffering sigh, “I’m not the one taking out his frustrations. For four years you’ve been obsessively tracking a fairytale. Surely with your resources and dedication, you’d have found _some_ sign that these creatures exist. The fact that you haven’t has to be a low blow.”

“I am not having this discussion with you again,“ Sherlock snapped. “Do you realize how difficult it was to collect all—“

“I’m sure if you dedicated yourself you could track down all your resources and rewrite your notes, but why would you? You’re not the boy who cried dragon anymore. You need to start thinking about your future more seriously. There’s always a place for the Order in government.”

Sherlock groaned.

“Come, now brother. There’s no need to be so childish.”

Sherlock groaned louder and flopped down into his desk chair. Resting his elbow onto the desk to support his head, he glared at Mycroft. “You had no right to take my things. Just because you think I should follow in your footsteps—“

“This has nothing to do with me,” Mycroft cut in. “This has everything to do with you wasting years of training and experience on some frivolous fantasy. You’re squandering the abilities we’ve instilled in you.”

“It’s up to me how I spend my time,” Sherlock muttered and turned his chair so his back was to Mycroft. “You may govern the country, but you don’t govern me.”

“You can’t keep this up forever, Sherlock,” Mycroft sounded exasperated. “It’s time to lay childhood folly to rest.”

Sherlock heard the sound of Mycroft’s retreat and kicked the wall behind the desk. That man was unbelievable. The fact that he just assumed he had the right to dictate his life like he owned it. Just because he was “the smart one”.

The worst part was that the bastard was right. He knew he was young, but that was nearly irrelevant in the face of his resources and intellect. If someone as dedicated and well travelled as him couldn’t find any concrete evidence that drakaine were real, perhaps no one could. Hell, if Sherlock were looking at the situation from the outside, he would think he were a lunatic too.

Sherlock huffed and thumbed the edge of the newspaper. Perhaps he should focus on something else for the time being. After all, who was to say the drakaine that attacked him was still alive? For all Sherlock knew, it could have died at the hands of another dragon slayer. Maybe there were no more drakaine.

He sighed as his eyes roved the cover of the newspaper. Apparently there had been a murder that had the police baffled. Idiots.

The name Lestrade cropped up in several places in the text. Lestrade… wait. That was the name of the constable that let him off with a warning for possession. Kind man, but a bit dim. They had a good rapport, didn’t they?

It was a place to start, anyway.

   --        

 _Les espèces draconiques utilisent leurs aptitudes ensorcelantes afin de pieger les hommes bons et sages. Cependant ces créatures peuvent être démasquées en dévoilant leur magie au touché_ _._

Sherlock was so deep into his reading, he hadn’t realized John had stopped writing until he noisily held up his singular sheet of paper and said something about a waste of a day.

“Ne dis pas ça,” Sherlock responded absently as he stopped writing with a few finalizing strokes. He pulled his watch out of his pocket and was surprised o see it was already half eight.

“What?” came John’s confused reply.

“Hmm? Oh,” Sherlock cleared his throat and put his watch away. Wrong language. That was embarrassing. Hopefully John would be impressed rather than think him foolish. Not that it mattered, except that it did.

“Right,” he continued, “no, this day hasn’t been a waste. Not for me anyway. So far I’ve amassed several vital points from the texts available and my mind palace. Once we get additional resources, we should have enough to come up with a few feasible plans on how to catch this thing.”

He glanced over to see what John had written, only to be disappointed by what he saw. John seemed to pick up on it before Sherlock had a chance to react vocally.

“What’s wrong?”

“Is that seriously all you’ve written?” Sherlock took John’s list from him and looked over all four points. “We’ve been at this all day and this is all you have? I can see why you thought today was a waste.”

“Oi, I did my best with what was given,” John said defensively. “Seriously, look at the sources here. Poetry, mythology, classical literature. None of these are exactly reputable sources for our purposes here. Some of these are barely English!”

“Middle English is still English,” Sherlock argued, but had to concede that John had a point. “Though, not your fault. Not a useful knowledge base outside this context.”

“Thank you,” John said in that insincere way that meant it wasn’t a ‘thank you’ so much as an ‘I’m glad you see it my way’. Sherlock should know. He used it all the time, much to other people's obvious displeasure. He normally hated being on this side of it.

Somehow though, he didn't mind with John. Probably because of that smile.

“Now,” John said as he stood from his spot on the sofa and stretched. “It’s late, I’ve been reading metaphors and flowery language all day, and I’m starving. I’m going to go get some takeaway.” His hands fell to a rest at his hips as he looked down at Sherlock. God, he was beautiful.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked in surprise. “What was that?”

John seemed more concerned than he ought to, but repeated the question Sherlock had missed, “What would you like for dinner?”

“Oh, whatever’s fine,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and John seemed to relax. “I know you’ll insist on my eating regardless, but I’ll remind you again that I don’t eat while I’m working.”

“Good thing you have me then,” John pat Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand delightfully warm against the chill of the room, and headed for the door. “Doctors are often useful in cases of malnutrition.”

“So you doctors keep saying,” Sherlock laid John’s disappointingly scant list down and went back to his book, finding it difficult to concentrate with the lingering heat of John’s touch causing a pleasantly nervousness in his chest. It was ridiculous.

“And we’ll keep saying until you learn to eat like a normal human being,” John grabbed his coat off the rack and left the room with a short goodbye.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and went back to writing. As he listened to the front door close, he tried not to think about how he already missed John. God, caring about people was tediously irrational.


	9. I Didn't Want To Include A Full List Because Holy Fuck It Was Long, So If Y'all Want To Know All The Nonsense Sherlock Wrote Please Let Me Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I wrote this while I was suppose to be finishing up an assignment... oops. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Also please leave comments, I love praise and constructive criticism

“Sherlock?” John called out as he passed through the doorway with a few boxes of Thai food in a paper bag. The sitting room was empty and silence rang throughout the flat. John set the bag on the coffee table to have a better look around when he noticed a note sitting on top of Sherlock’s writings. He picked it up with a small frown.

_Wire from Yard. Could be nothing. Will wire with details. Eat your Thai._

“Fantastic,” John muttered to himself as he looked back at the still-warm takeaway, vaguely wondering how Sherlock knew which place he’d gone for food. He’d been hoping to get Sherlock to at least eat something today.

He found himself looking back to Sherlock’s writings, curiosity mounting. It was probably best that he read them. After all, if he and Sherlock were supposed to be on the same page he may as well know what’s written on it.

After grabbing himself a fork and opening a box of Pad Thai, John sat himself at the coffee table and began reading. He already knew what he’d written down, his sheet off to the side though his messy scrawl stood out amidst the even messier half cursive of Sherlock’s notes.

  1. _Running hot or cold depending on elemental alignment_
  2. _Resistance to most forms of damage from their element_
  3. _Heightened sense of sight and hearing_
  4. _Tendency toward irritability if stayed in one form too long_



That had been a painful few hours. He could have been finished in less than five minutes if he didn’t need to find textual evidence to substantiate. It was like being in medical school all over again, except boring.

He took a bite of his Thai and spread Sherlock’s pages out. They shared a few of the same points, but there was no doubt that Sherlock had far more written than John. He had even added little annotations on which he thought were most promising. Though, the more he read, the more he realized that while many point were true, most were wildly inaccurate.

  1. _They are immune to most damaging aspects of their elemental base. Water and its cold cannot harm a water elemental while its complete entry to the lungs can. Fire and its heat cannot harm a fire elemental while its smoke can. Rock and its strength cannot harm an earth elemental while its grown or inherent toxins can. Air and its bite cannot harm an air elemental while its debris can._
    * _Likely, given the evidence_
  2. _Obsessive and possessive leanings are common and they are often protective of what they deem theirs_
    * _Consistent with dragon hoarding_
  3. _Given the illogical mind of the dragon, drakaine are incapable of prose and speak almost exclusively in poetic language and rhyme_
    * _Possible, need further data_
  4. _Inability to understand even the most basic of mathematical or scientific knowledge_
    * _Obviously_
  5. _Claws glow in the dark and scales have faintest odour of lavender_
    * _Insufficient data, but not impossible_
  6. _…_



 --

“Captain!” Burke stood to attention along with the other soldiers standing guard around the dragon’s makeshift enclosure. The weather-stained canvas walls stood out against the blue sky and dry sandy ground, while the curve of the dragon’s back peaked over the top. During the construction, it was determined that canvas would be sufficient until more suitable materials became available. With the dragon as restrained and injured as it was, it was unlikely to be successful in any escape attempt any time soon.

John gave a nod to the soldiers before turning his attention back to Burke. “At ease, Lieutenant.”

Burke relaxed and the stern set of their face eased into a handsome grin. “They send you out to the front lines, eh?”

“Volunteered, actually,” John smiled back. Burke was always an easy soldier to get along with.

“Of course you would, danger junkie like you.”

“Easy, Lieutenant. Talking like that to a superior officer, people might think the heat’s gotten to you.”

“It might very well have,” Burke smiled sheepishly, “How do you deal with it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so much as break a sweat.”

John feigned a thoughtful expression. “Experience? Discipline? A sunny disposition that make me immune to the sun itself?”

Burke chuckled, “Alright, maybe the heat has gotten to you.”

“Could be,” John smiled as a dull flair of relief washed over him, “I was just going to visit our new friend here.”

“The dragon?” Burke said with confusion, “You’re not telling me you actually want to get close to that thing?”

John shrugged, “How many chances do you get to see a real dragon? It is still restrained, is it not?”

“Well, yes,” Burke glanced over his shoulder, “Richards is in there now collecting some samples. But between you and me, she’s always been a bit,” he leaned in close to whisper, “loony. If I had my way I’d be as far from the thing as possible. Really, who would ever want to get that close to a bloody monster like that?”

Ouch.

“Oh come, now, Burke,” John shook his head and pushed down the familiar hurt, “I know her shower operas are camp-wide torture, but that hardly makes Richards a monster, does it?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Burke said as his cheerful manner chasing uncertainty away, if only temporarily, “Though if I ever see her head to the showers with a towel, I’ll be running for the hills as fast as my legs can carry.”

“And I’ll be right behind you,” John said as he took a step toward the enclosure entrance, “I’ll just be a moment.”

“That thing gets loose, a moment’s all you’ll have,” Burke shook his head in resignation as he resumed his post.

John pulled back the canvas panel and took a step inside. The dragon was still tied up and immobile, looking very much the epitome of both dejection and pain. The long gash on its side had been covered with another bit of canvas, and somehow the lack of proper bandaging seemed just as heartbreaking as seeing the dragon injured. John felt a pang of sympathy and cursed that he hadn't been able to properly attend to this poor thing yet. It glanced at him as he entered and John felt that same mental push from before wash through him. All those thoughts and feelings filled his mind, just as indecipherable and fleeting as before. He closed the panel and took a few careful steps forward.

“Captain,” a voice from the side and John turned to see Richards standing there in a pair of gloves and holding a glass tube, which contained what looked like blood.

“At ease,” John said as he approached her. The enclosure was quite large inside, the walls a good few metres from the dragon on all sides. He was almost embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed her when he first came in.

“What are you doing here?” Richards asked with her brows drawn, “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I didn’t think anyone was all too eager to get this close. Not until more secure containment was available.”

“That seems to be the common thought, yea,” John said, glancing back to the dragon. Its eyes had followed him as he moved. “I never thought I’d see one in person.”

“I feel the same way,“ Richards said as she looked between the dragon and John, “It really is an incredible sight, and a truly fascinating thing to study. I can’t wait to begin experiments.”

“I can imagine,” John said as he remembered the glee in her eye as she shot the dragon and the dragons subsequent pain. He hated to think of what kinds of experiments she would perform if she got the chance.

“Speaking of,” Richards waved the tube of dragon blood before carefully placing it in her bag, “I should go analyze this. The last time humans got a chance to properly study dragon blood was before the microscope was invented. Unless you believe the conspiracy theorists.”

“I’m not one for conspiracies,” John said, perhaps a little tersely.

“Neither am I,” Richards said, seemingly oblivious, “but they are good for a laugh. Care to walk me back to my quarters?”

“Oh, er,” John looked back to the dragon. Its eyes were still trained on him.

“It won’t take long,” Richards said quickly, “I just want to make sure I get the sample to a safe place as soon as possible. Dragon blood is rather poisonous under the right circumstances and I’d rather it be contained before it has a chance to cause harm.”

“Fine, sure,” John turned to give her a curt smile and a nod. “I can have a proper look at it once I get back. Someone will have to properly dress that wound. To keep the poison contained, if anything.” God, he hated the way that sounded.

“Thank you, sir,” Richards said as they started back toward the exit. John kept an eye on the dragon as they walked and noted that its eyes still hadn’t left him. When they reached the exit panel he noticed Richards was watching the dragon too.

 --

  1. _Though all drakaine have knowledge of one element of four, they differ from their draconic ancestors in their power of suggestion with their direct link to the human mind_
    * _Hypnosis could explain lack of sufficient evidence. Need more data_
  2. _Even in human form they are immune to physical maladies and injuries. Neither steel nor stone can pierce the skin of a drakaine_
    * _Probable, cannot discount_
  3. _Drakaine use their powers of deception ensnare men of intelligence and goodness. However, the creatures can be revealed by recognizing their magic through touch_
    * _Unlikely, dragons do not give outward signs of ‘magic’, further investigation needed_



John shook his head as he finished reading. What. The. Fuck. Glow in the dark claws? Sprouting extras limbs? Hypnotism? If Sherlock knew how off base these some of these were, he’d be furious. Start ranting about a waste of time, or the horror and inadequacy of relying on the knowledge of other people. 

Suddenly John felt his secret was a lot safer. If Sherlock had been banking on identifying a drakaine through impenetrable skin, then the scar on his shoulder would be more than enough to throw suspicion off himself. That wasn’t even taking into account that nonsense of rhyming and inability to understand math or science. He was starting to feel so stupid for worrying so much. It was embarrassing.

There was however, the question of identifying the true murderer. They had to share the same tell-tales as him, or at least some of them. But then, John’s sample size for drakaine was far too small and he was far too close to it. What if the murderer did have some of these more outlandish traits? The longer he stared at the list, the more he realized that unless the other drakaine was careless, it was quite possible they wouldn’t find the murderer before they killed again, if ever. After all, if Sherlock hadn’t found out his own flatmate wasn’t fully human, how could they find a complete stranger?

John jumped as a loud noise broke through the silence of the flat. Once he realized what it was, he had a relieved sigh and turned to the desk, on top of which sat their personal teleprinter device where a message slowly print itself out. He stood up and walked over to the suitcase-sized machine and pulled out the fully printed message.

_JOHN. NEW LEAD ON THE HEADLESS CORPSE. MEET ME AT THE YARD IF CONVENIENT. YOU SHOULD BE FINISHED YOUR PAD THAI BY NOW. SHERLOCK_

John pocketed the note and tapped out a short reply. He felt terrible for whoever was handling inbound over at the Yard’s end. Mostly because Sherlock often insisted on tapping the reply himself.

A quick clean up and putting uneaten food in the icebox, John took one last look at the notes and walked out the door.


	10. There Have Been Some Controversial Opinions About The Series Four Finale But The Important Thing To Remember Is That John And Sherlock Kiss At The End Of This Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE SOME VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER. Young Sherlock faces bullying and John gets a little banged up but he's still good. None of it's graphic though, so I mean, to each his own.
> 
> Also Sally and Violet are dating but it's not really relevant to the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I toyed with leaving the last part until the next chapter but then I thought fuck it, why end with a cliffhanger when the plot has already thickened?
> 
> As for the title, I didn't actually hate the finale. I was disappointed by some of their narrative choices, but overall it wasn't the worst thing I've ever watched. If you liked the episode more than I did, please don't take offence. I just really like making digs. If you disliked the episode more than I did, enjoy the digs.

“Bloody freak’s gone off the wagon with this one,” said Donovan. “Next he’s going to be saying that it was faeries that started the Great Fire of London.”

There was a responding giggle and oh, that did not bode well. John rounded the corner to find Donovan talking with someone John recognized from the check in desk, but whose name escaped him. Violet maybe? John really only knew her as the pretty one who had a penchant for wearing anything with gears printed or sewn on.

Violet was about to respond when she noticed John, and instead smiled sheepishly. Apparently she had more qualms about being caught talking about Sherlock so candidly.

“Afternoon, Dr Watson,” she nodded amicably.

“John,” Donovan greeted. “Come to talk some sense into your friend?”

“What’s he done?” John asked. He could probably take a guess based on the conversation he’d walked in on, but it was better to have all the facts when it came to Sherlock and New Scotland Yard.

“He’s prattling on about drakaine being responsible for that Wisteria Inn murder. I mean, he can’t honestly think that some storybook monster did it, can he?”

Ouch.

“What’s so strange about that?” John asked as casually as he would ask about the weather. That made Donovan laugh dismissively.

“Oh, please. You actually agree with him?” When John shrugged indifferently, Donovan balked. It was a beautiful expression that left John feeling a little smug. A lot smug, actually. “You can’t be serious," she continued with a tone that oozed incredulity. "You’re just as mad as he is!”

“Probably,” John deadpanned and continued on his merry way down the hall.

The good thing about talking to people who weren’t as observant or clever as Sherlock was that he could afford to speak as plainly as he liked without fear that they would catch on. Still, that didn’t mean that he liked talking to her when she spoke about Sherlock like her was some aberration.

When John had finally made it to the DI’s office, their standard meeting spot, he as nearly knocked down as Sherlock stormed from it in a flurry of indignation.

“-clearly shows evidence that is not your usual dragon attack. Any moron could see that we’re dealing with something outside the bounds of what any yarder has ever dealt with. You’d think my expertise would be more appreciated rather than discounted as absolute drivel.”

John, who had been following along as best he could with Sherlock walking as fast and furiously as he was, shook his head.

“They didn’t believe it was a drakaine?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock grit out as they passed Donovan and Violet on their way out. “Brains too small to comprehend genius when it stands before them. I realize that the subject matter seems preposterous, but coming from me should completely negate that.”

“Have you told them you were in the Order?” John asked, careful to keep quiet in case anyone tried eavesdropping.

“Of course not, “ Sherlock said in derision, “but that doesn’t matter. With how much I’ve proven my superiority of mind they should accept my word as law.”

John frowned. They were on the street now with Sherlock looking for a free cab, but something niggled at the back of his mind. As a cab started to pull up to them, it clicked.

“Why tell me, then?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, pausing with his hand on the door handle.

“Why tell me about it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I told you. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

“Okay,” John said carefully, circling around to the other side of the cab, “but that doesn’t explain why you wouldn’t tell at least Lestrade. He’s our friend too, and I doubt he’d be the type to say anything. Besides, you said it was mostly tradition that you don’t tell people.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh, “I don’t expect you to understand. It’s not like you’ve ever had to keep a secret this big. If you did, I’d know about it.”

“Right,” John said as he and Sherlock both got into the cab. Once they were seated inside and Sherlock had listed the address for the cabbie, John looked over to his friend. He hadn’t intended to say anything, but just the sight of Sherlock sitting there, all popped coat collar and above-it-all confidence, the words found themselves.

“Just,” John’s hesitance earned him Sherlock’s attention, “I know you like things to be clever so that you can prove you’re even cleverer, but this case… there’s more to cleverness than impossible problems or complicated solutions. Sometimes it’s preventing them from ever becoming problems in the first place. Simplifying.”

“You think telling Lestrade is the clever thing to do,” Sherlock huffed, “John, I really-“

“I’m just saying,” John interrupted, unsure of what he was actually saying until once again, the words found themselves, “I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

Sherlock stared, speechless, with his brow drawn in a thoughtful way. John cleared his throat awkwardly and left him to it in favour of watching London pass by through the window.

 

\--

 

Eleven-year-old Sherlock raced across the country road and grassy fields toward the shoreline, heart pounding and adrenaline an exhilarating rush through his veins. The air was tinged with that last week of summer energy you could only feel as a child right before school started up. Red Beard barked happily at his side and behind him, Sherlock could hear the exerted panting of a rather lanky boy. A few bounds and the grass gave way to pebbles. When Sherlock’s shoe hit the water he cried with the sweet taste of glory.

“Ha!” he turned to face his fair-haired friend. “Looks like today I’ll be the Victor.”

Victor Trevor shook his head, freckled nose scrunching distastefully, “Did you really have to say it like that?”

Sherlock stepped back onto dryer ground and shook water from his foot as Red Beard splashed about in the freshwater. He smiled smugly, “Couldn’t resist. If you don’t want me to say it like that, you should learn to run faster.”

“Come off it,” Victor rolled his eyes and half-heartedly pushed at Sherlock’s face. “Let’s just get to pirates, eh?”

Sherlock grinned wickedly and picked up a piece of driftwood. Levelling it like a sword, he stood in position like he’d seen the pirates in his books do. The books he wasn’t technically allowed to have. Victor did the same.

“En garde.”

They were both terribly bad. Victor was uncoordinated and slow to respond, while Sherlock did his best to mimic him. Wouldn’t be fun or fair to actually fight the way Sherlock knew he could. This wasn’t about the challenge. This was about Victor. His summertime friend. His best friend. His only friend.

It was about an hour before they tired themselves out from swashbuckling, an about another hour of skipping stones when Sherlock noticed a change in Victor.

“Of course, we’re still not sure if his last name was Teach or Thatch, but- what’s wrong?”

Victor was staring anxiously down the road at a group of five boys on bicycles. Sherlock recognized them from school, but they were two grade levels above him just like Victor. Despite the age difference, they still found time to torment Sherlock if he was alone between classes, which he often was.

“Oh god,” Victor said as he turned and covered his face with his hand. “I shouldn’t be here. I have to go.”

“What?” Sherlock said in confusion. “Why should you care if they’re here? I thought they like you.”

“They do!” Victor said. “But it’s not, I-“

“Oi, Trevor,” the leader, Michael, said as the boys pulled to a stop. “What’re you doing with that tosser?”

“Nothing,” Victor said defensively.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” chimed in the redhead. “Looks right friendly to me.”

“They do, don’t they?” said the posh one as he leaned back on his shiny, expensive looking bicycle. The spotty faced boy to the side sniggered and shared a look with the big-eared one, which Michael was very obviously ignoring.

“Piss off,” Sherlock said, a little hurt at the embarrassed shade of red Victor was turning. “Don’t you have something better to do? We’re busy.”

“Sherlock,” Victor admonished, but it was too late.

“So you _are_ friends!” Michael laughed. “I knew you were neighbours, but you would actually hang around with Sher-Be-Locked-Up? What, you fancy becoming a freak too?”

“No we’re not!” Victor said too quickly. “I mean, I wasn’t-“

“Why do you care why they think?” Sherlock murmured as Victor stumbled over his words. There was a panicked plea in Victor’s eyes that felt like a vivisection to Sherlock. Fine. If Victor didn’t want his reputation tarnished by the freaky boy who knew far too much, then so be it. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and did his best impression of Mycroft’s emotionless mask.

“It’s fine,” he said tersely. “I was bothering him while he wanted to throw rocks in peace. I’ll go now.” He started off angrily when he felt a rock hit his back. Hard.

He turned on his heel to find Michael’s boys laughing with him. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? It wasn’t his fault that Michael was upset over Big Ears going round to Spotty’s more and he certainly couldn’t be blamed for Posh finding out about his father’s affair.

“Oi, what did you say?” Michael was positively fuming now. That’s when Sherlock realized he’s said all that out loud. Again. Not that it mattered. They were going to be abusive to him regardless of what he did or said. Little boys had funny little minds.

“You heard me,” Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. He was a future Dragon Slayer. He shouldn’t have to kowtow to the needs of puny little self-important idiots.

That’s when the rest of Michael’s group started hurling more rocks at him. It was strange, Sherlock noted, how he’d spent his whole life training to fight dragons only to be rendered terrified by a few older boys with pebbles. Then again, he supposed, he was still a child.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouted, suddenly finding himself surrounded. He fell to his knees and covered his head with his arms. “Stop!”

There was a loud succession of barks, followed by a piercing scream. Sherlock looked up to see Red Beard dangling from Michael’s arm. Everyone stopped with the rocks and ran back to their bicycles in a panic. With a feral growl, Red Beard let go of Michael’s bloodied arm and barked after him until he was riding off after his friends.

Sherlock carefully stood and wiped the tears from his eyes. Red Beard trotted back and licked his hand until Sherlock smiled. Victor must have scarpered because he found himself alone on the beach.

Victor never came to call on Sherlock again. It was a few days later when the police and animal control came for Red Beard. It was another week when Sherlock vowed to never allow fear to take someone who loved him away again.

 

\--

 

John got out of the cab, secretly thankful to be out of the cab and the tense silence that had imposed over their journey. Apparently telling Sherlock that John didn’t want him to get hurt had caused Sherlock’s brain to stall. Interesting to know at the very least.

“So, who are we interviewing?” John looked up at the Italianate style office before them.

“Duncan Ross,” Sherlock started off toward the building with John in tow. “He was interviewed by police earlier today. Identified our head as a Mr Spalding who worked as secretary treasurer. He wired that the office would be open late and that he’d consent to a follow-up interview. Lestrade thought he was hiding something and if was obvious enough for him I can only imagine what I’m going to find.”

“How modest we are,” John said impassively as a man who had been standing near the entrance of the neighbouring building since they pulled up in the cab push off the wall and entered.

“Naturally,” Sherlock responded in kind as they crossed the threshold. “Everyone knows it’s one of my many talents.”

John snorted. They came to a stop in the lobby, where an ornate sign stood bearing the words ‘Please Wait for Service’. He looked around, but it didn’t seem like anyone was coming to assist them anytime soon.

“Should we, I dunno, ring a bell or something?”

Sherlock held up a hand and looked around. He stood like a silent statue, seeming to wait for something “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock murmured as he stepped further into the lobby. “Big office like this kept open on a weekday, you’d expect to hear people walking around, co-workers complaining about the hours, or at least the riffling of papers.”

“So what, they closed earlier than he said?”

“Then why were the doors unlocked?” Sherlock crept further into the building. “No, there’s something more here.” John took a moment to pray for the patience to deal with Sherlock’s cryptic nonsense and followed him into a room that was largely empty except for a large solitary desk against the far wall.

“Lamps are still warm,” Sherlock muttered as he tapped the metal of the oil lamp mounted to the wall, “consistent with being interviewed this afternoon, but they were extinguished no less than half an our ago and nearly cooled to room temperature. Nail marks on the walls. Things were hung up but not enough time for the sun to bleach the wallpaper, so recently put up and taken down. The wallpaper itself is strange. Certainly done professionally, but again, not long enough for time to touch it.”

“So this room is a front for something?” John examined the room himself, but something seemed off. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Sherlock’s ability to really observe.

“I rather like the word ‘stage’ in this instance,” Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and began examining some scratches in the hardwood.

“You would,” John muttered and wandered over to the desk. It had obviously been cleaned off, but that was all John could glean from it until he rested a hand on the surface to find a couple liquid drops. Confused, John brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed. Oil, like the kind used in the lamps.

John stepped around the desk to find a wire running out of one drawer and taped down the leg of the desk, almost invisible in the shadow of the weak sunlight coming in from the other side of the room. He followed the wire’s path down and saw it disappeared into a hole in the floorboards. With a feeling of foreboding, John closed his eyes and really listened. It was faint, but he could hear them whisper through the walls. Two men.

_“They should be there by now, right?”_

_“We’ll get the signal when they get to the street. Don’t be so impatient.”_

_“Are you sure we’re watching the right house?”_

John was on the move before his mind could catch up to the danger his body detected. “Sherlock we need to get out.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up from his spot on the floor, but thankfully not making much of a fuss when John grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “I haven’t finished-“

“Shut it,” John said as he dragged Sherlock toward the door, doing his best to keep himself between the desk and his friend. Just a few more steps until they were in the lobby, and then another few until they were in the street.

The explosion was as sudden as it was expected.

 

“John! JOHN!”

Someone was gently slapping his face and John groaned. This was not how he liked to be woken up on the best of days, and the raging headache he had was definitely not making this the best of days. His eyes fluttered open and above him hovered Sherlock’s heartbreakingly relieved face haloed by the twilit sky.

“John,” Sherlock breathed as he rested a heavy hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank god.”

“I…” John said as he took in his predicament. He was lying on his back on the stone walkway a little ways from a burning building. A building, which was surrounded by fretful onlookers who watched in earnest as the fire brigade pulled up in their truck. Of course. The office where they were meant to interview Duncan Ross. It all came rushing back and John had some very important questions. “Where’s my jacket?”

“Had to take it off,” Sherlock said almost sheepishly. “When you pushed me out into the lobby the sleeve caught fire. You hit your head when the blast threw you or else I’d assume you would have taken it off yourself.”

“I liked that jacket,” John lamented as he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea came over him and he accepted he’d have to stay down a bit longer. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, yes, fine,” Sherlock dismissed, “Just some cuts and a sore wrist from falling.”

“Am I okay?”

“I managed to get the jacket off before it managed to burn you. I’d feel much better once we get you assessed by a doctor who isn’t lying prone in the middle of the street.”

John laughed. _Burned._ He couldn’t get burned. Not that Sherlock knew that. He probably thought John was lucky to escape with only an injury head. Head injury. Doctor Watson a war hardened soldier who's faced bombs and dragons rendered silly by a bump on the head.

“John, focus,” Sherlock rested a hand on John’s cheek. John sobered at the fearful glint in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sorry, I’m fine. I think. Just a concussion.” When Sherlock’s eyes remained unchanged, John rested his hand over the one against his cheek and gently squeezed. “I mean it, Sherlock. I’m going to be fine.”

Sherlock searched John’s face like he was looking for the missing piece of a puzzle. Normally this would make him uncomfortable, but whatever damage had been done to his head made it really difficult to feel anything other than pain and a vague sense of cloudiness. So instead of doing whatever it normally was he did when Sherlock looked at him like that, changing the subject or something, he just stared back.

That’s when something clicked in Sherlock’s eyes and he made that adorably stupid deduction face he makes.

“Oh,” he said looking into John’s eyes. “I understand. The sentiment, your reflection in the glass-“

“Glass?”

“Yes, John, I saw your reflection in the cabbie’s window. That’s how glass works, but then you have a concussion so I’ll allow you that. But everything else, the little things you do, you’ve always done. You're loyal, you're always there, you're genuine. You… you care about me.”

“’Course I do, Sherlock,” John replied. “I told you that.”

“You did,” Sherlock laughed in a way that showed disbelief. “You did tell me, but I’m only now piecing together what you meant by that. At least, what I hope you meant by that.”

Sherlock leaned down, his face getting close enough so that their lips brushed against each other. John felt his heart pick up as Sherlock’s demeanour took on a tone of nervousness. “Is this… is this okay?”

John swallowed, feeling just as nervous, “Probably a good idea to wait until I’m of more sound mind.”

“Right,” Sherlock said with obvious disappointment as he started to pull away. “Yes, of course.”

John really didn’t like the look on Sherlock’s face, and he wouldn’t stand by it. He reached up and pulled Sherlock back into a slightly awkward but wonderfully satisfying kiss. Sherlock tensed at the sudden movement, but soon melted under John’s touch. It was magic. An eternity of bliss in seconds. When they finally parted, John huffed a laugh.

“I never really have been good at waiting.”

Sherlock’s smile could put the sun to shame, as he said, “Neither have I.”


	11. John's Relationships Are Kind Of Fucked Up But Meh, That Happens Sometimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my like is a whirlwind of fuckery at the moment. School was terrible, looking for a new job sucks, and I miss my mom so much, it makes me feel like I'm pinned to the bottom of a pool with a spear in my chest and I can't breathe.
> 
> But that's oversharing, so here's the next chapter. I wanted to advance the plot but also provide backstory.

The cab back to Baker Street was not at all kind to John’s aching head. Apart from the constant jostling of wheel on cobblestone, there was also the issue of too many thoughts vying painfully for his attention.

There was their conversation with the fire fighters at the scene. It was still too early to tell much, and John was still fuzzy on the details for obvious reasons, but from what they could gather it seemed the desk in the room they were in, along with the desk in the room on the opposite side of the building, were rigged to blow and filled with enough oil soaked paperwork to set the entire street ablaze. It was a miracle that it had been contained to just the one building. Well, a miracle and a combination of a quick response time from the nearby fire department, helpful citizens with extinguishing devices, and unhelpful but well-meaning citizens with buckets of water.

While it was a very good thing that no one was hurt, John couldn’t help but get stuck on the point that someone had timed this. Poorly, granted, but it had been timed. Someone hadn’t meant to kill them so much as send the two of them a message. They had nearly died because of it. Sherlock had nearly died because of it.

Sherlock. That was another thought that rattled around in his head.

Since their kiss, the man would not stop hovering. Even after the on call medic cleared John to go home, Sherlock insisted on a second opinion until John forcibly moved him to the roadside to hail a cab. Even now, Sherlock held John’s hand firmly in his and tightening his grip against any threat to dislodge it. It was nice, wonderful even, but there was the daunting thought that hung over his head like the sword of Damocles: he might be in a relationship with a dragon slayer.

Fuck.

He stole glances at Sherlock as stealthily as he could with the disorientation and pain. Sherlock seemed as lost in thought as he was. John wondered what was going through his mind. Was he thinking about the case? Their kiss? Their relationship?

What would a relationship with Sherlock even be like? Would Sherlock even want to be in a relationship? John wasn’t sure which answer he’d prefer. Any answer Sherlock would give only made him nauseous if he thought about it. Or maybe that was just the concussion.

Thoughts were hard.

They pulled up to Baker Street and John all but fell from the cab. Sherlock was at his side in an instant and supported John by wrapping an arm around his waist. It was oddly both intimate and completely mundane. As he helped John up the front steps, Mrs Hudson opened the door with a bit of a fright in her eyes.

“John!” she exclaimed. “Sherlock, what happened?”

“Explosion,” Sherlock answered as she stepped back to let them in. “Someone rigged the offices of our lead to blow. Obviously a message gone wrong given the dramatic means of engaging us at the start.”

Oh, so Sherlock knew it was a message as well. That was one problem solved.

“Explosion!” Mrs Hudson placed a hand over her heart. Sherlock let John sit on the stairs to their flat before turning back to the still alarmed form of Mrs Hudson. “Goodness me, are you boys all right?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Sherlock nodded. “John made sure I was in the clear before heroically stopping a bit of debris with his head.”

Mrs Hudson turned to John, her eyes filled with an almost sad pride. It was almost unsettling.

“I’m fine Mrs H,” John said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Really, I’m grand. Just a mild concussion.”

“Of course you are, dear,” Mrs Hudson placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Playing brave in the face of injury. What are we going to do with you?”

“Well you’ll have to figure that one out yourself,” Sherlock said suddenly. “I, on the other hand, will be going down to the yard to have it out with our dear Detective Inspector for letting his ineptitude nearly get us killed.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson chastised.

“At the very least I should go over and see what they can make of the explosion and false workplace.” Sherlock turned away from Mrs Hudson to give John a firm kiss heading out the door. “Take care of him!”

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue as Sherlock slammed the door behind him. “Oh that boy. Well, come now dear. You can stay with me and have a nice cuppa until he gets back.”

“I really shouldn’t—“

“Of course, dear. I’ll put on a pot of decaf and get you a paracetamol.”

John huffed a sigh as he stood up on wobbly feet and followed Mrs Hudson into her flat. She made sure to sit him down at the table before setting on the task to get the kettle boiling.

“You had a visitor earlier today,” she said conversationally.

“Did I?” John asked. “Who was it?”

“Your sister.”

John froze, but Mrs Hudson’s back gave no outward sign of anything amiss. He forced himself to relax and put on an air of curiosity, “Harry was here?”

“Yes, said she wasn’t to talk to you,” Mrs Hudson brought over John’s mug and placed it along with the paracetamol on the table in front of him. “I tried to have her wait for you but she was it a bit of a state.”

John nodded slowly, “She’d been drinking.”

“A bit, yea,” Mrs Hudson confirmed as she sat down with her own mug. “Not what I expected when I pictured your sister. Well, I knew about the _drinking_ ,” she whispered that word, “but the dark hair and the accent were a bit of a surprise. Never would have pegged you for an American.”

“Uh, yea,” John said as he took the medication. “Came here when I was about three. Harry was… older.”

“What about your parents?”

"They, er, they died," John said, feeling oddly strange about the lie. It was probably because it was Mrs Hudson he was lying to.

“Oh, poor dear,” Mrs Hudson reached over to take his free hand in hers. “You and your sister against the world.”

“It’s fine,” John smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring, “it’s all in the past. Mostly.”

Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand, “Well, when you’re well again you should go call on her. Make sure everything there is all right. Family is the most important thing there is.”

“Yea,” John took another sip while his chest felt more hollow by the second, “yea I’ll go see her.”

 --

Eighteen-year-old Harriet trudged through the front door, exhausted after ten and a half hours of middle-aged men telling her they know more about construction than she does and then proving them sexist. The flat was oddly quiet as she turned on the kitchen light and dropped her keys on the table.

“Johnny?”

“John.”

Harriet turned to see John sitting on the sofa in the dark with a dejected look on his young face. Upon closer inspection, Harriet noticed he seemed to be purposely hiding one side of his body. When she stepped closer, he turned more and his dejection turned to anger.

“I told you, it’s John.”

“John, what’s…” she noticed the bruises covering the baby fat, “oh my god, John what happened?” She reached out to touch him but he shuffled away. She let her hand drop. “John…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Harriet’s heart went out to him.

“Okay,” she shook her head, “okay. We can talk about it when you’re ready.” There was a beat of silence. “Have you eaten yet?”

John mumbled something that Harriet thought sounded like a no. She nodded and walked back to the kitchen to find something. The icebox was mostly a box at this point, which didn’t really matter since it was also mostly empty. She checked the cupboards and took out a can.

“How do you feel about soup?” After a moment of silence, during which she considered repeating her question, John mumbled something else. Harriet tried to reign in her frustration. “John, sweetheart, can you speak up?”

“Today was my music recital.”

Shit. Shit, shit, and _shit._

“John, I am so sorry,” Harriet said as she turned around to face him. “Really, I didn’t mean to miss it. They offered me a longer shift, we need the money, and I wasn’t thinking. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“You always say that!” John spun around to face her and in the light the full extent of his bruises broke Harriet’s heart. “You’re always working! I wanted you there and you didn’t turn up even though you promised! You promised!”

Harriet stood there in shock. John had never shouted at her before. A suspicion crept up on her like a spider crept upon a fly. “John… who gave you those bruises?”

“Some boys,” John murmured. “They said clarinet was for girls.”

“John—“

“Why am I different?” John demanded. “Every time I try to do something, it’s wrong. I’m tired of being wrong! I hate that even when I do something normal kids do, I do it wrong!”

“John, you’re not wrong,” Harriet insisted, “You’re—“

John shot up and stalked off to his room. The slam resonated throughout the flat followed by a deafening silence. Harriet leaned against the countertop and took a deep breath. This was so hard. God, why was this so hard? She didn’t realize she was crying until she took a deep breath what wobbled more than it should.

“Dammit,” she set the can on the counter and went searching the cupboards for a pot. Everything was shit. Everything was shit, and there was nothing she could do to make it better. She reached in and grabbed the one with the good handle before noticing the bottle of wine she’d stashed there weeks ago. It had been a present from her landlord as congratulations for landing the new job.

 _‘Good to have a steady paycheque now,’_ he had said. _‘Go celebrate with your friends.’_ Well, she didn’t feel much like celebrating, but having a glass or two might be good for her. Take the edge off from her constant failures.

After a moment of thought, she grabbed the bottle.

 --

Sherlock stormed into Lestrade’s office to find the man rubbing a hand over his face. He was grateful for Lestrade being there rather than out investigating so Sherlock could yell at him for not investigating.

“Good to see you’re enjoying a sit down,” he said, slamming his hand on the desk for emphasis. “We nearly got blown up because your team didn’t do a thorough enough investigation.”

“Sherlock—“

“What do you routinely employ toddlers to work in your department? Because that’s the only way I could explain the sheer level of amateurish buffoonery that goes into the investigative work you do. If you could call it work.”

“Sherlock—“

“John was nearly set on fire, do you realize that? I could have been without my friend and roommate forever because no one knows how to do some decent detective work around here!”

“SHERLOCK!”

“WHAT?”

Lestrade took a deep breath, “Three boxes turned up at our front door a few minutes ago. Each box held the head of a different man. Best we can tell, they were ripped from their bodies.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and adjusted his stance, “What?”

“They came with this note,” Lestrade handed over a folded up piece of paper _(ripped from a notebook, obviously done heat of the moment; there was a tear near the tape from someone peeling it off one of the cardboard box)_ and Sherlock took it. Tentatively, he unfolded the note and read the shaky print.

_SORRY ABOUT THE MIXED MESSAGE._


End file.
